


99 Problems but a Snitch Ain't One

by DwaejiTokki



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur is Gryffindor Captain, Arthur squints all the time, Gwaine likes apples, Hogwarts stuff, Humor, I don't really know - Freeform, Merlin is Seeker, Morgana and Arthur don't get along, Quidditch AU, Uther's not crazy, and also he's Prefect, gryffindor vs slytherin, lots of misunderstandings, merlin's beard, nor do they play nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 21:45:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 42,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5681932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwaejiTokki/pseuds/DwaejiTokki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Quidditch AU. Arthur has little faith in his new Seeker, Merlin, but despite his clumsiness and childish wit, he turns out to be quite a good asset to the team. Gryffindor would surely crush Slytherin in the upcoming House Cup! Now if only Gwaine weren't commentating…The one where Merlin tries out for Seeker, he and Arthur hate each other maybe, and just about everyone has a place on one team or another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't got this one outlined like I normally do, which means that this is a side project and not completely written yet. I will finish it, though, eventually. There are no Harry Potter characters, just the universe. 
> 
> I owe everything I’ve learned about Quidditch to Kennilworthy Whisp’s "Quidditch through the Ages".

~1~

“Watch where you’re going!” snapped an irritable voice.

Merlin, having been knocked to the ground from the force of the collision, glared up. A tall teen with golden hair haloed by the early morning sun was glaring right back at him, eyes squinted threateningly. “Me?” Merlin retorted indignantly, pushing himself back up to his feet. His second-hand broomstick was still clutched in his hand, the grass stains from the dewy pitch invisible on his black school robes. “You’re the one who ran into me, you prat!”

At the insult, the older boy raised an eyebrow. “And just who do you think you’re talking to, _boy_?”

“A prat who blames the person he knocks down when he doesn’t look where he’s walking,” Merlin spat, drawing himself to his full height. He came to half an inch taller than the other, though he was far lankier than the stocky build before him.

“I can take you apart with one blow.”

“I can take you apart with less than that.”

The prat opened his mouth, cheeks reddening in anger, but before he could say (or rather, shout) anything, another person ran up. “Sorry I’m late!” he exclaimed, sweeping his dirty blond curls from his forehead. “Professor Agravaine really held us up in history.”

Following at his heels was a tan-skinned girl with curly dark hair that she was knotting at the back of her head, broomstick tucked between her neck and shoulder as she did so. “Have try-outs already started?” she asked.

The prat shook his head, folding his arms. “I couldn’t start without you two. Everyone else is over there.” He pointed carelessly toward the sideline, where a group of people were sitting or standing, some talking or fidgeting nervously. His sharp blue eyes narrowed in on Merlin again, looking him up and down, and he stared back defiantly. Instead of the expected comment on the obvious poor look he bore (his patched, too-short robes over his skinny frame doing a good job to make him look homeless), the prat said, “You’re here for try-outs, right? Get over there.”

Merlin lifted his chin and strolled across the pitch. He’d been heading that way, anyway, looking admiringly up at the fifty-foot high silver goalposts at the far end of the field. He spotted his friends Will and Freya, who waved him over. Merlin grinned and joined them. Will was trying for the team as well, but Freya, who was actually in Ravenclaw but had grown up with the two, had only come to support them.

“Nice run-in with the Prince, Merlin,” Will complimented.

“Who?” Merlin asked quizzically, dropping down beside them.

Will smirked and cocked his head back toward the prat, who was apparently still conversing with the two late-comers. “That’s Arthur Pendragon.”

Merlin nearly choked, eyes going wide. “ _The_ Arthur Pendragon?!” He groaned and fell back onto the grass, closing his eyes both in dismay and to protect them from the sun. “I bet I’ve just buggered up my chances at getting on the team.”

“What, ‘cause you ran into him?” Freya asked, frowning.

“No, ‘cause I called him a prat.” Merlin turned and gave her a wide-eyed, emphatic look. “In my clotpole voice.”

“Ooh,” his friends winced sympathetically in unison.

“Well,” Freya said kindly, “maybe he’ll still give you a fair chance.”

Merlin rolled onto his side and eyed the rest of the hopeful participants. There were several nervous third years, some fourth years like him, and quite a few calm students who were older. He was sure that they’d be given higher consideration. He sighed. “Perhaps it’s not meant to be. Ah, well. At least Mum will be happy.” Merlin’s mother had tried to persuade him to join the Gobstones Club rather than Quidditch; she had never quite recovered from his father’s death during a game-related accident.

Will slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Buck up, Merlin! You look like you’ve been walloped in the stomach by the Whomping Willow. Practice hasn’t even started yet! Besides,” he said, smirking, “you’re the best flyer in our year.”

Merlin chuffed. “Maybe, but no one else’s called the _Captain_ , Gryffindor _Prefect_ , and headmaster’s _son_ a _prat_.”

A new voice, dripping in mirth, interjected, “Ye did what now?”

The trio turned and spotted a handsome wizard, Irish if his accent was anything to go by, who looked to be in his sixth year, with dark shaggy hair framing his amused face. His teeth were white and straight, revealed in a broad grin. Merlin flushed, embarrassed.

“Insulted the princess, have ya?” he nodded sagely, unbothered by the uncomfortable looks he was receiving from the younger students. “You needn’t worry! He’s quite used to it, I should think, all things considered: Morgana and I have a running bet to see which of us can push him hardest. I’m hoping to get him admitted to Mungo’s one of these days.” An apple was mysteriously procured from the sleeve of his robe, the Gryffindor patch visible on his chest. Around a crunchy mouthful, he continued, “Anyway, good luck, the both of ya! Arthur’s a fair chap, in any case. He goes on potential, more than anything else. Ta!”

With that, he flounced off, flicking out his wand and causing an unattended broomstick to levitate and zoom off towards Arthur, whose back was still turned. His friends saw it coming, however, and ducked, giving him just enough time to do so himself without wasting time glancing over his shoulder. The broom whizzed off, performed a series of paper plane-esque loops, and then returned to its owner, all under the carefree waves of the perpetrator’s wand.

“ _Gwaine!_ I’ll report you to—”

“Just keepin’ ya on your toes, Princess!”

Merlin wasn’t sure how much faith to put into Gwaine’s assertions.

It seemed that Gwaine’s attack had wrapped up their conversation, because the three headed toward the sidelines, brooms held at their sides. Seeing them approaching, the crowd quieted and gathered more closely together, giving the Captain their full attention. His two friends joined the try-outs. It seemed that Arthur was giving everyone an equal chance, disregarding friendship to create a good team.

Obviously he was a winner.

“First things first,” Arthur said, raising his voice to be heard clearly and planting his hands firmly on his hips. He squinted, something that Merlin was beginning to find incredibly annoying. Must he try to look so condescending? “If you are not from Gryffindor, you aren’t trying for the team, so don’t even try.” As he said this, he fixated a stern glare at a third year girl from Slytherin, who slunk off dragging her broom behind her. “If you are a first or second year, it is against the rules for you to try out for the team.” A gaggle of first years separated from the group, running off hollering back to the castle and not seeming put out in the least. “If you can’t handle teamwork or long and hard practices whilst maintaining good marks, I can assure you that you’ll not cut it.” No one broke off this time, and Arthur seemed satisfied.

He took three steps back, eyes flitting across individual faces. “Now,” Arthur said, “since there are this many of you, you will divide into three groups. If you’re only a spectator here to support your friend, remove yourself to the wall out of the way.”

Merlin felt Freya give his shoulder a squeeze as she left and joined four other people.

“Has everyone got a broom?”

Merlin’s grip tightened on his Comet 200, feeling a bit self-conscious. He would have tried out last year, but he hadn’t owned a broom then. The broom he had now was practically ancient, but it was all his mother had been able to afford, and she’d refused to let him so much as touch his father’s old Cleansweep Three. He was sure that if asked, his Uncle Gaius would have lent them a Galleon or two, but the Emryses hated to rely on charity even from family. Besides, Merlin had worked for the broom, doing odd chores here and there for neighbors, like de-gnoming gardens or chasing out pixies. He’d even once rescued a cat from a tree. Most everyone else, though, had more recent models, like Nimbusses or Firebolts.

Somehow, during all the shifting, Merlin had ended up separated from Will, who was in the second group, while Merlin was in the last.

“Mount your brooms, group one,” Arthur said. “You’ll fly around the pitch three times. You’ll want to demonstrate your best.”

On his whistle, a party of six raised into the air.

Merlin thought it was brilliant of him to start off with such a simple test, because while some of the more experienced flyers shot off like arrows, two had a more wobbly start before catching up, and one only lifted a few feet off the ground and then crashed hard.

He craned his neck back in awe, watching them blur against the backdrop of blue sky. He noticed that the one in the lead was the curly-haired boy who had arrived late. Robes whipped fiercely behind them, hair tousled freely by cutting wind. A grin etched its way onto Merlin’s face as he watched, a deep longing feeling his chest. People had often commented on how appropriate his namesake was: he often soared high in the air, where the winds became thinner but chillier, then drifted in lazy circles back to the ground, much like a falcon descending to its nest.

The third turn around the pitch, and the first group landed, looking exhilarated and windswept. Arthur nodded approvingly and told them to sit aside for a moment. Merlin rather thought that the curly-haired one had a position already, based solely on his superior flying skills. Maybe Freya’s cousin, Lancelot du Lac, who had shown impressive maneuvering.

“Group two, mount your brooms,” Arthur called. He waited a moment so that everyone was ready, then gave the signal.

Merlin watched Will. He’d gotten off to a bit of a shaky start—the twigs in his broomtail had once caught fire, and no, it _hadn’t_ been Merlin fault—but he had much practice in correcting its flight and did well compared to others. One girl tried to overcorrect and flew into a goalpost; another tried to turn too fast, taking out the boy on her left. He managed to catch them both, and they resumed the race, but had lost a lot of time. Merlin lowered his gaze to judge what the captain thought of the display.

Arthur was watching them with a hand shading his eyes from the sun, turning in place to mark their progress. His eyes were squinted even more than normal, reminding Merlin of the crotchety old man who’d lived down the road from Will. Other than that, though, Arthur’s expression was pretty neutral.

There were no more mishaps, and the second group landed. Merlin noticed that the girl who had spoken with Arthur earlier had tied with an older boy who had strikingly similar features to her (he decided that they must be siblings).

“Group three, mount your brooms!” Arthur called once the second group had moved off the field.

Merlin nervously did so, white-knuckling the handle of his broom. He swallowed hard.

“All right there?”

He turned and saw a pleasantly-smiling girl, her cheeks rosy as though she’d just flown with the last group, but her auburn hair was still neatly brushed back into a bun that he was sure wouldn’t stay unless she’d charmed it. He didn’t quite trust his voice, so he simply returned her smile and nodded, heart thudding wildly in his chest. Arthur gave the signal.

Merlin shot straight up, pushing hard with his feet against the grass so that his stomach plummeted. All the others ascended in a smooth slope, picking up speed as they went. He bent low against the handle and shot forward, sweeping past the rest of his group in a blur. Several startled people cried out, and he could swear he heard Will whooping over the wind rushing in his large ears. His heart calmed and swelled happily in his breast as he flew. It was one of his favorite past times.

He was zooming toward one of the audience stands, the tall structure clothed in purple to hide the scaffolding. People watching were sure he was going to collide with it head-on, and at that speed he would likely cripple or even kill himself—but Merlin turned at the last second, barrel rolling as he made a sharp arc. Then he righted himself and sped along the pitch, performing the same type of turn at the opposite end. On the final turn Merlin grinned and hung upside down, clinging to his broom with only the bends of his knees.

“Show-off!” shouted Will good-naturedly.

The Comet dropped in altitude from an alarming height, appearing as a freefall. But a few feet above the ground the broom evened out and Merlin grasped the handle one-handedly, skimming the grass with his toes before coming a stop where he had started.

He hadn’t been the first to finish—his old used broom was too slow—but if the way people stared at him was any indication, he’d been quite impressive. Freya beamed and waved at him from the sidelines, and he returned it. Merlin cast an overt look at Arthur, but he was as stoic as before.

“You all did well,” he addressed them, “splendid work. Now we’ll be seeing how you do with the balls. We’ll start with the Quaffle.”

With that he strolled to the center of the pitch, broom slung over his own shoulder. Merlin was slightly annoyed to see that it was the latest Firebolt model. There was the box that the balls were locked into after each game. The Quidditch balls were enchanted, each for a specific function. The Quaffle was the goal-scoring ball; the two Bludgers chased players around the field and tried to knock them out; and the Snitch, designed to look and act like the endangered Snidget bird, was the most important one, as whoever caught it earned his or her team 150 points.

The groups were further divided so that there were three in each. Merlin managed to snag Will, who had befriended the boy Merlin thought was Lancelot (it _was_ Lancelot, Freya’s older cousin who recently returned from studying abroad). Each group was called forth one at a time and took to the air with Arthur, who threw the leather Quaffle at each of them in turn, and then had them fly around and pass it to one another as he observed. Merlin wasn’t _too_ worried. He was rubbish at playing Chaser, and even more rubbish at playing Keeper (luckily, Arthur was Keeper, so they weren’t testing for it), and even _more_ rubbish at playing Beater, but he made an excellent Seeker, which was what he was trying for.

Some players were better than others; some caught the Quaffle more easily, some had better aim, and some had neither of those skills. Merlin, as expected, was categorized in the latter. When his group took flight and circled around the field making passes, Lancelot by far outstripped them. Will dropped the Quaffle once, but made a quick save. Merlin caught the thing whenever it was passed to him, but he constantly dropped it, and only Will’s quick reflexes saved him from being hit in the face when Merlin aimed for Lancelot but threw it at him.

Needless to say, he was much relieved when Quaffle time was over, and Arthur called for the teams to _further_ split so that everyone was paired. There was a mad shuffle, and Merlin _somehow_ ended up paired with that boy whom he thought was the brother of Arthur’s friend. “Elyan Smithson,” he’d friendlily introduced himself.

They were one of the first couples to be called up for Beater try-outs. Merlin had half a mind to ask whether he could just sit this one out, but as far as he could see there was no other partner for Elyan, so he bit his tongue and went up, heavy bat in hand. He had little practice with the thing, and in any case he didn’t think a stick was adequate defense against _metal_ Bludgers that deliberately tried to knock your brains out midair.

Once they were in position, Arthur released the Bludger he had trapped in his arms, laying his body across it and struggling to keep it confined. It rushed at Elyan first, as he was the closer player, and the boy swung his arm hard—pelting it directly for Merlin.

Instinctively Merlin dropped the bat and grabbed his broom handle, doing a Sloth Grip Roll to avoid being hit. The Bludger overshot its target, and by the time Merlin had righted himself the Bludger was arching back for him. His broom leapt up several feet at the last possible second, the wind from the ball actually ruffling the hem of his robes. Elyan, ready again, knocked it back toward Merlin. He rolled again to the right, then to the left as the Bludger came back.

“I think it’s safe to—“He ducked as Elyan hit it back, damn him—“I think it’s safe to say that I’m not a Beater!”

Elyan laughed heartily, twirling the baton in his hand as the Bludger tried a new tactic: circling around Merlin to get at Elyan. The stocky teen hit it downwards toward the captain, who had his wand out.

“ _Accio_ Bludger!”

The ball zoomed toward Arthur, who caught it against his chest with an ‘oomf!’ as the force knocked him to the ground.

“Next—pair!” he grunted, writhing about. Two girls hurriedly flew up into position as Elyan and Merlin landed together.

“You’ve got some great flying skills,” Elyan complimented him, patting him on the shoulder.

Merlin grinned. “Thanks. And you’re not bad yourself—you’ve got a strong arm and great aim to boot!”

“I’ve not been a Beater three years running for nothing.”

The pretty curly-haired girl approached, congratulating Elyan on a good try-out. She turned to Merlin, smiling. “And I think you’ve got all the makings of a Seeker! My name’s Guinevere Smithson, but my friends call me Gwen.”

“Hullo, I’m Merlin Emrys,” he said.

“ _Accio_ Bludger!” Arthur shouted again. They turned to watch him wrestle with the enchanted metal ball, slightly amused.

“Merlin’s beard, Merlin!” Will greeted, slinging a heavy arm round Merlin’s scrawny shoulders. “Excellent flying, mate, but I tell you—if you’d have let the Bludger get your face (just once, mind you) then the girls would have been all over you!”

“Only one girl as far as I’m concerned,” Merlin said, shoving him off playfully, “and it would have been Auntie Alice’s healing touch.”

“ _Auntie_ Alice?” Gwen gasped. “So you’re _that_ Merlin!”

“Um?”

She smiled. “Once in my second year I got hit by a stray pimple jinx and a bat bogey hex, both at once. It was _awful_. While Alice was fixing me up she got to talking about her favorite nephew Merlin, and all the antics he got into.”

Merlin blushed. “I’m her _only_ nephew,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as Will made mocking googly eyes at him. But her laugh was infectious and he ended up joining her.

“ _Accio_ Bludger!” Arthur shouted.

Merlin wandered over to sit with Freya, who had been on her own long enough. He was sure she must have been bored—she’d never been one for sports, even one as great as Quidditch—and besides which, he rather liked talking with her. His mother had expressed her surprise that Merlin hadn’t been in Ravenclaw with her. So far as she could trace back through their history, Merlin was the first to be placed in Gryffindor House (Hunith herself had been from a long line of Hufflepuffs, and Balinor from Slytherins and Ravenclaws.) He sat with her for the rest of the Bludger try-outs, which took longer than he expected due to several casualties—one girl received a broken nose, and two boys were still unconscious.

So far, so good, then.

Merlin rejoined the group as it crowded Arthur, who had at last forced the Bludger back into its harness. The captain brushed grass clippings from the front of his robes as he straightened, pocketing his wand.

“Alright,” he said, voice beginning to get scratchy from all the shouting he’d been doing. “You’ve all done well today. I must implore those of you who have been injured to pay a visit to Nurse Alice at the infirmary. The try-out is now concluded. I will be personally telling you if you’ve made the team tonight at dinner, so be sure to be in the Great Hall tonight. Thank you all for coming.”

“But what about the Seeker?” piped up one voice.

Arthur paused swiftly, and answered, “That was doubled as the flying test at the beginning.”

That seemed to satisfy everyone, and people began collecting their brooms and things and making their way off the field, animatedly discussing their own performances. Merlin waited for Freya and Will to catch up, feeling oddly disappointed. He’d half-wanted to impress the Captain with his Snitch-catching skills.

Freya and Will were laughing together as they approached, but when they looked up at Merlin they suddenly turned serious. Merlin frowned in confusion. Had he looked angry? He opened his mouth to ask them what was up, but a voice spoke behind him: “You. Merlin.”

He looked over his shoulder to see Arthur squinting at him. Merlin raised an eyebrow in imitation of his Uncle Gaius, supposing that Arthur had gotten his name from Gwen. “Yes?”

“Come with me. Your friends needn’t wait.” The last he said loudly enough that Freya and Will heard, and they hesitated to leave. Merlin gave them a nod, feeling just as confounded as they looked, and turned to follow the Quidditch captain to the middle of the pitch. Freya and Will continued on their way, shooting Merlin a look that meant they’d be waiting out on the grounds and that they’d come looking for his body if he were gone for too long.

“Um, is this about what I said earlier?” Merlin asked tentatively as Arthur knelt in front of the Quidditch box. He had a vague sense that he was going to beat him to death with a Bludger.

“Huh?” Arthur said distractedly. “Oh, that.” He stood up, kicking the lid closed. His fingers were curled around something. “No, but I have to ask—what the hell is a prat?”

Merlin smirked. “In two words? Captain Arthur.”

“It’s Captain Pendragon to you,” he said, but with a roll of his sapphire eyes that belied humor. “Now, I assume you know what a Snitch is?” Arthur opened his hand, holding a walnut-sized golden ball between his thumb and forefinger.

Merlin’s eyes widened, and he nodded a bit too enthusiastically.

This time Arthur smirked. “You’re a good flyer, I’ll give you that,” he said. “But you’re rubbish at catching, so far as I could see.” With a toss of his arm and a flick of his wrist, the Snitch zoomed off into the air and flitted out of sight. “You have ten minutes. Starting now.”

It took a couple of seconds for Merlin’s brain to catch up with his ears, but when he understood his task, he grinned and mounted his Comet. With a whoop, he shot off and circled the pitch, ignoring the lone figure watching him to scan his surroundings for the Snitch. Falling into habit, Merlin went as high as he could go—about seventy feet, give or take, before his broom started shuddering in protest. Then he made wide circles around the pitch, each successive loop taking him a bit lower.

He drifted lazily for a few minutes, biding his time. The Snitch probably wasn’t going to reveal itself too quickly, in any case. But then he saw it glint in the sunlight, drawing his sharp eyes instantly.

It was floating about Arthur’s head, almost kissing the golden hairs.

Merlin grinned swiftly and dove, allowing the broom to gain speed naturally. Arthur didn’t move even when it became obvious that Merlin was heading straight for him—a direct collision course. As the young flyer became parallel several feet over Arthur’s head, he pressed for a last burst of speed and spun into his upside-down position, one arm outstretched.

His fingers curled around the light, feathery-feeling metal. His hand closed around it as he swung himself upright. Merlin slowed to a halt, clutching the Snitch with a victorious grin. He turned the broom to face Arthur, still hovering over the grass, expecting an astonished gape.

But Arthur merely squinted at him. “That was twelve minutes and forty-four seconds, _Mer_ lin,” he said, holding out his hand for the Snitch. Merlin released the ball, and it flitted to the captain and snugged into his palm. Ignoring Merlin’s indignant expression, he went to place the Snitch back in its proper place.

Merlin stormed off the field as soon as his feet were back on the ground. “Prat,” he muttered vehemently under his breath as he passed him.


	2. Chapter 2

~2~

Of course, on the way back to the castle after reuniting with his friends by the greenhouse, Merlin had related the last fifteen minutes. Freya and Will had agreed that Arthur had been unfair about the test, as the Snitch had a mind of its own and always made itself deliberately hard to spot. They made their way to the library where they could hide themselves among the musky piles of books and talk behind Arthur’s back in peace. Geoffrey of Monmouth, the reclusive librarian, never minded people whispering, but there was only a certain level of noise he would tolerate.

Soon, though, Will and Merlin had to retreat to the Gryffindor dorms to put away their brooms and change into clean robes for dinner. Even after scorning and jabbing at Arthur’s character for the better part of an hour, they still very much wanted to know who made the team. And, both secretly thought that they had a fair chance of being chosen as well.

They arrived early for dinner, their nerves having gotten the better of them. After all, it was far better to be early than late. Most of the professors were already seated at the long table at the fore of the room, conversing amongst themselves. The headmaster had not yet arrived, but he was often busy in his office or away at the Ministry. He and Will found themselves a place to sit at the Gryffindor table, but no sooner had their bottoms touched the bench than Gaius was catching Merlin’s eye and waving him over.

Biting back a sigh of aggravation (Gaius _always_ waited for Merlin to sit before calling him over), Merlin hurried over, nearly tripping on the three steps up to the platform where the teachers took their meals.

His great-uncle smiled kindly down at him, and, noticing his appearance, so did his wife Alice and Merlin’s mother, Hunith. Gaius was the wizened, portly Potions master, married with no children to Alice the kindly and humorful Healer. Hunith (her smile looking slightly strained) was the beloved Advanced Herbology professor and Head of Hufflepuff House. “How was your try-out, m’boy?” Gaius asked.

Merlin pursed his lips. “Not too bad, I think. Even Captain Pendragon said I was a good flyer. Don’t worry, Mum. I don’t think I made the team, anyway.”

Hunith’s shoulders sagged a bit in relief, but she frowned anyway to see her only son looking unhappy. “Why ever not?” she asked.

He shrugged, giving a careless smile. “Even if I don’t, there’s always next year!”

“That’s the spirit,” Gaius nodded approvingly. “Run along now, and make sure to eat something with protein in it!”

Merlin acknowledged him with a backwards wave of his hand, sure that he was going to eat whatever he liked and not something strictly adhering to his uncle’s constant dietary advice. By the time Merlin made it back to his seat, hungry students were arriving in droves, chattering noisily. The tables began to fill up, and the headmaster arrived in all his stern, majestic glory. But as far as he could see, there was still no sign of Arthur.

He didn’t know why he was so anxious. Merlin was fairly certain that he hadn’t made the team. He’d failed Arthur’s test. Went over the allotted time by two minutes and forty-four bloody seconds, like that meant anything. The frustration over that one made his shoulders tense up, but he made a conscious effort to relax them. It was no matter. As Merlin had told his mother, there was always next year.

Unless the prat was captaining then, too. After all, he was only a fifth-year.

His mood soured again. Will noticed and didn’t try to engage Merlin in conversation. Instead, he began to speak with Lancelot beside him, who had arrived just a moment before still wearing his robes from the morning.

Merlin was only snapped out of his trance when a person sat down on either side of him. “Hullo, Merlin,” said Gwen on his left, smiling brightly. “Do you know Mithian Montgomery?” She gestured to the girl on his other side, who he recognized as the rosy-cheeked girl with an auburn bun.

“Uh, hullo,” Merlin said, a bit flabbergasted. Girls had never been quite repulsed by him, but neither had they ever fallen over him. Not that he thought Gwen and Mithian were after his virginity—they seemed to just want to befriend him, for some reason beyond him.

“Excellent flying earlier, Merlin,” Mithian said. “I do hope you make the team as Seeker.”

“Uh—“

“Oh, there’s Morgana,” Gwen said, standing. She raised her hand high into the air and waved it vigorously, catching the attention of a Slytherin girl across the room. Morgana, who had long black ringlets that cascaded freely down her back and framed her pale face, smiled and waved back enthusiastically, then resumed her conversation with the blond beside her.

Merlin raised his eyebrows. “You’re friends with a Slytherin?”

Gwen merely smirked. “What, you thought Slytherins are all bullies?”

He flushed, thinking back to his first and second years when a particularly nasty brute named Valiant used to humiliate him—and once stuck him in a Vanishing cabinet and locked it, only for Merlin to discover that its pair was also locked, leaving him frantically running back and forth between the doors banging and screaming and crying for someone to let him out, much to the shock of the old lady who owned the other one. But Gwen didn’t seem angry at all, and patted his hand as a sort of reassurance.

“When’s Arthur going to be here?” Mithian asked, leaning around Merlin to address Gwen.

She shrugged, tapping a beat on the table. “He’s still finalizing things with Leon’s help. Apparently it’s harder than he thought it would be. They’re probably snogging, too.”

Mithian frowned suspiciously. “Are they dating?”

“No, but wouldn’t they make a _cute_ couple?”

They snorted and giggled at the idea, and Merlin tried to imagine Arthur snogging another boy. But that was difficult, as he didn’t know who Leon was, so he ended up seeing the back of Arthur’s head as he and his invisible partner kissed.

Luckily, he didn’t have to dwell on it long, because Uther Pendragon, the headmaster, stood to say a few words. “I hope you’ve all had a good day,” he said once he’d had everyone’s attention. “Seeing as it is a weekend, I have not much to say, other than eat up.”

There were several hear, hears.

Suddenly, food appeared before the students, a wide diversity spreading along the lengths of the tables. Platters of exquisite foods, both local and exotic, gave off mouth-watering aromas. People dug in, filling the plates in front of them with whatever they were in the mood for—in Merlin’s case, some shepherd’s pie, fish and chips, and baked beans on toast. _Stereotypical_ , he thought for a moment, but then shrugged it off. It was delicious anyhow.

Mithian spoke up beside him as he ate. “Isn’t your mum the Herbology professor? Professor Emrys?”

He nodded quite eloquently, mashed potatoes spewing a bit from the corner of his overstuffed mouth.

“I’ve not had her yet,” Mithian said. “Though I’ve heard she’s a favorite. I wish she would teach the younger students instead of the advanced courses. Professor Borden is downright mean.”

Merlin nodded in concurrence, having been under the tutelage of the man himself. From what he’d learned from Uncle Gaius, Julius Borden had once been a disciple of his, but they had had quite the falling out, and Borden had gone off in search of dragons for a while before suddenly reappearing and asking for a job. The man was clearly embittered because he couldn’t procure the Potions job as he wanted.

He swallowed and said, “Mum’s got to teach the advanced classes because she’s the only one qualified for it, and she hasn’t got the time to take all of the regular classes too.” He shoveled in another large bite of his pie.

Mithian nodded absently, her eyes having caught the oncoming figures of Arthur and Leon Lionel, the curly-haired friend of his. Merlin stubbornly lowered his eyes to his plate, shoving excessive quantities of his meal into his mouth. He realized his mistake a moment later, finding himself unable to chew or swallow. His only choice—besides choking to death—was to spit some of it back onto his plate, much to his only witness’s (Will’s) disgust.

“So?” Gwen said when Arthur, with Leon on his other side, came to sit by her. “Let’s see the list, then!”

Arthur shrugged her off, piling his plate with roasted beef and carrots. “There’s no list.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Leon?”

“There’s no list,” he answered dutifully.

“You promised to tell us who’s on the team at dinner tonight, and now it’s dinner tonight!” Mithian interjected, leaning around both Merlin and Gwen.

“I’m hungry!” Arthur snapped irritably, loading his plate. “And I can’t find my glasses _anywhere_. They’re not in my room, not in the common room, not in the library, not even in the Lost and Found! I nearly got my hand taken off by a _Monster Book of Monsters_ looking through there, too.”

Mithian and Gwen backed off then, a mixture between exasperated, sympathetic, and impatient.

“You’re _always_ losing your glasses, Arthur,” Gwen chided him, stirring her fork through her salted peas. “It’s a wonder you’ve made it this far. Some of the first years think you’re scary, the way you glare at them all the time.”

“I’m not glaring!” Arthur protested, slapping a mound of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “I just can’t _see_!”

A laugh bubbled up in Merlin then, remembering how irritated he’d been that Arthur squinted at everyone for the entire morning. And here he’d thought that the prat was just trying to look intimidating.

“Well,” Gwen said, “when’s the last time you saw them?”

“Last night before I went to sleep,” he grumbled, “when I set them on my bed stand. And _don’t_ ask if I’ve retraced my steps, because I have. I’ll bet it’s Morgana.”

“How’s Morgana going to get in the Gryffindor dorms?” Mithian demanded.

“Gwaine, then.”

“More likely, but I know for a fact that he’d snuck out into Hogsmeade yesterday evening and only got back this morning,” Leon said.

Merlin leaned around Gwen and interjected, “Maybe it was wood worms.”

“What?” Arthur made a face, squinting at him.

“Wood worms,” Merlin said seriously. “They’re mischievous creatures that take valuable things when you’re not looking.”

“Wood worms,” Arthur repeated flatly.

The younger Gryffindor nodded, taking no notice of the others trying to suppress giggles and grins. “They’re quite the problem, especially in old houses in the woods.”

“Please tell me you’re not an idiot _all_ the time, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur said in a despairing tone. “I don’t think I could stand it if you’re like this all the time.”

Will answered for him. “He’s like that all the time, sometimes even in his sleep. He should have been in Hufflepuff, if you know what I mean.”

Merlin glared at him.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Well, at least our team is _mostly_ all right. I mean, it’s not like we’ll have to see him outside of practice.”

Will choked on his pumpkin juice, spraying it across the table. Merlin didn’t even notice the chilled liquid dripping down his face; he was paralyzed in shock, staring at Arthur. Mithian handed a napkin to Will as Lancelot thumped him on the back, looking slightly concerned for the fact that Will was purpling in the face. Gwen nudged Merlin with an elbow, trying to give him a napkin as well.

He started back to life, releasing a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “Does—does that mean…?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “What did you expect, _Mer_ lin? I thought it was rather obvious, considering you’re the only one who tried for Seeker.”

“But…But you said…!”

Since Merlin still hadn’t taken the paper cloth, Gwen dabbed the juice from his face herself, and he absently reached up and took over.

Gwen smiled pleasantly. “I knew you’d be picked for Seeker!”

“Congrats, Merlin!” Lancelot said, raising his goblet in commendation.

“Thanks,” Merlin said, unable to tear his gaze from Arthur.

Mithian patted him on the back as she leaned past him once more. “Arthur, who else is on?”

“I’m Keeper, Leon and Elyan are Beaters—I’ve already told him—you, Gwen, and Lancelot are our three Chasers,” Arthur listed off, tapping his fork on the edge of plate for each player. “And, as I’ve just said, Merlin is Seeker.”

“Which makes Merlin and Lancelot our only new players,” Leon added. “Frankly, everyone else was rubbish. Almost as rubbish as Hufflepuff.”

“That’s not fair!” Gwen admonished him, though there was twinkle in her eye. “Don’t let Gwaine hear you say that, Leon.”

Merlin wasn’t surprised in the least that Gwaine chose that precise moment to appear, munching another apple. “Hear what?” He looked between Leon and Gwen. “I heard my name, eh, but nothing about my charm or good looks or top marks.”

“You haven’t got top marks, Gwaine,” Arthur said.

“Well, neither have you, Perfect.”

“Well, I don’t lie about it, Gwaine. And it’s _Prefect_.”

Gwaine scratched his nose, grinning triumphantly as Arthur speared his meat mutinously. “And anyway, while I was out last night, one of the fine ladies of The Three Broomsticks told me she’d found a pair of glasses lying around, thought to ask me if I knew them.” He dug around in his robe pocket as Arthur spun around, suddenly looking very interested, and pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed rectangular spectacles.

“Those are mine and you know it, Gwaine,” Arthur said.

“Aye,” Gwaine said merrily, “that I do. That’s why I brought ‘em to ya.” He stuck the apple in his mouth, sinking his teeth partly into the red skin to hold it, and unfolded the legs of the glasses. He shoved them onto Arthur’s face before the blond teen could stop him, face jerking back in response to the movement. “Now stop scaring the first years!” he said, crunching the apple, and he sauntered off toward the Hufflepuff table.

“I wasn’t _trying_ to scare them, I just couldn’t bloody _see,_ ” Arthur mumbled darkly, taking off his glasses and rubbing the lenses with his robe. “He got his bloody fingerprints all over them, bloody _Gwaine_.”

Merlin craned his neck, frowning. “Isn’t Gwaine in Gryffindor?”

“Yes,” Gwen answered, “but his best friends are in Hufflepuff—they’re Percy and Elena. And Gwaine, as you’ll probably come to find, isn’t too big on rules.”

“More like we wonder how he’s not been expelled yet,” Arthur said haughtily, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose with a knuckle. Merlin thought that he looked like a normal person when he wasn’t squinting. Nicer, maybe. More approachable. “And how were my glasses at The Three Broomsticks? I haven’t even been to Hogsmeade in the last week!”

Gwen patted his shoulder as though to say it was one of life’s mysteries and it was better not to question such things. Merlin took a slow breath, and started again on his meal. It had a slightly pumpkin taste to it, thanks to Will, but it didn’t particularly bother him. They’d shared lollipops when they were kids, and still sometimes shared cups and such, so it wasn’t as though they’d never ingested one another’s saliva. (Which is only gross if you think about it—and after all, kissing is just swapping spit—which is also gross if you think about it. Merlin stopped thinking about it.)

“What is our schedule looking like?” Lancelot asked, leaning over the table to address Arthur and to be heard over the general chatter. “I wouldn’t mind much, only I’m taking advanced courses.”

“As it is,” Arthur said, setting down his fork to retrieve a folded square of parchment from his inside robe pocket, “I’ve got Saturday mornings reserved for Gryffindor practice.” He opened the parchment, scanning it. “Slytherin’s got those afternoons, but they did take Tuesday afternoons as well, damn them. No way’d they trade. So I suppose we’ll have to make do with Thursday evenings. Every once in a while we could do a Sunday or Monday practice, if we need it.”

Lancelot nodded. “That’s fine. Tuesday practices would have been nice, though.”

“Indeed.”

“Well,” Mithian said airily, “the Slytherin’s teams made up of six girls, so they should be quite easy to beat.”

“That’s a trap,” Arthur said immediately, knowing that there would be hell to pay if he made any remark or agreement insinuating that girls were the worse at flying. “And anyway, no one believes that. Their seeker may be an inexperienced third year, but everyone else is fifth year or up, and all of those girls used to terrorize me as a child…Bloody Holyhead Harpies wannabes.”

Gwen and Mithian laughed, but Arthur fixed them with a stern look that said he wasn’t joking, which only made them laugh more. Merlin didn’t laugh, and neither did the other boys; they knew how scary girls could be.

“Who’s on the Slytherin team?” Merlin asked. He wanted to watch out for them.

It was Lancelot, surprisingly, who answered. “The Seeker is a third year named Mordred, uh, Mordred something. He’s a good flyer and he’s got a sharp eye, but he’s nothing special. Vivian Moffett plays Keeper position, but she can be easily distracted sometimes, especially when she’s mad. The Beaters are Sophia Sidhe and Sefa Bane—Sophia’s got a strong arm but her aim’s not great, and Sefa is left-handed. The Chasers are Kara Dowling, she’s got a Comet like yours, Morgause le Fay, she’s a seventh year and a brute of a girl if I’ve ever met one, and Morgana Pendragon, Captain and sixth year.”

“Morgana _Pendragon_?” Merlin repeated, shooting an astonished look to a sullen Arthur. “No wonder you’ve got such a grudge for Slytherin, you prat! You’re fighting your sister!”

Arthur scowled at him. “ _Half_ -sister,” he said firmly, as though it were an important distinction that should be remembered at all cost. “And that doesn’t matter, because we’re not _fighting_ , we’re _competing_.” He turned to Lancelot, ignoring Merlin’s smug look of comprehension. “It’s Mordred Disir. And how do you know all that if you’ve only just got here from France?”

“I watched their try-outs last Tuesday,” he responded. “Morgana set up the team immediately after the practice and dismissed those who hadn’t made it, then had a sort of team-building exercise on the pitch.”

Arthur hissed in frustration. “ _I_ should have done that!” He frowned down at his half-eaten plate for a moment, then looked up. “What sort of team-building exercise?”

“Well,” Lancelot said, reaching forward as the desserts abruptly replaced the dinner things, “it was getting sort of dark, and I was hiding because I wasn’t _exactly_ supposed to be there, but it looked as though they were making up formations and plays. I’m sure she had Mordred practicing the Wronksi Feint.”

Arthur snapped his head to Merlin, actually elbowing Gwen back a little so as to see the Seeker. “You’re learning the Wronski Feint _and_ the Plumpton Pass as soon as idiotically possible.”

“Idiotically possible?”

“You _can’t_ be human, not with those ears. Although you could be a diminutive species of troll.”

“Prat.”

“Idiot.”

“Dollophead.”

“That’s not a word, _Mer_ lin.”

“Yes, it is, haven’t you ever read _Frindle_?”

“ _What_?”

“You’re both being ridiculous!” Gwen exclaimed, pushing Arthur’s arm away so she could sit up straight and eat her spotted dick and salted caramels in peace. “And Merlin, _no one’s_ read _Frindle_ because it’s an American Muggle children’s book. And I have, but only because my mother was an American Muggle.”

“Oh,” he said simply, leaving it at that. He picked up a delicious candied strawberry. It was then that he suddenly noticed that Will was missing. Alarmed, he shot an inquiring look to Lancelot.

“He said something about sharing the news with Freya?” he offered.

Merlin twisted in his seat, knocking knees with Mithian, and spotted the messy head bent over a small figure with hair braided down her back. That was Will and Freya, apparently deep in conversation—or rather, Merlin winced, an argument. Will bent double, clutching at the tender place that Freya had just slammed her sharp elbow into. She stood up, said something curtly to him, and stormed off. When Will recovered, he ran after her, several people watching them with some interest. But they exited the Hall, and the gawkers returned to their desserts and friends.

Merlin frowned and turned around slowly, debating inwardly whether to go chase them down. It looked to be something serious, as Freya rarely became violent, and Will more rarely still sought her out when she was in one of her moods. He decided against it, but he was still bothered. When he glanced up, Arthur quickly looked away. Merlin blinked in confusion, then nodded sagely to himself when he at once surmised that Arthur was concerned for his sudden change in demeanor, but didn’t want to show it. A small smile quirked at the corners of his lips.

Maybe Arthur wasn’t all that bad.


	3. Chapter 3

~3~

Merlin bloody _hated_ Arthur, with a passion that burned hotter than the fires of hell and the stings of a thousand poisonous wasps and the icy burn of frostbite and the horror of splinching _combined_. For one thing, Arthur had called a Monday evening practice, which wouldn’t have been _too_ bad if it hadn’t been the _worst_ day he’d ever had.

Merlin had woken late, stubbed three toes trying to rush about, missed breakfast, suddenly remembered an essay he’d forgotten to do, skipped lunch to do that homework, only to find out that Professor Iseldir had postponed that essay; then he couldn’t find his wand right before Charms class, ran back to his dorm to hunt for it, still couldn’t find it, retraced his steps from the morning and still didn’t find it, only to discover that the damned stick had been in his pocket the entire time, and he’d arrived for last ten minutes of the period, and Professor Alator had taken ten points from Gryffindor; and then he had used the nearest restroom to relieve himself, only for the toilet to reveal itself as the incurably jinxed one that he’d been told to avoid in his first year, which instead of flushing regurgitated water and thoroughly soaked him with piss water, so that he had to rush back to his room and change; and then go to Divination with the creepy Professor Nimueh, who predicted his slow and painful death that Merlin wished would just happen already and put him out of his misery; and after that he had gone to Muggle Studies and learned that Will and Freya were no longer on speaking terms, which resulted in a very boring, silent lecture; and _then_ bloody Arthur had run across him just outside the Great Hall at dinner and said there was an emergency Quidditch practice, so Merlin had run back to his room, donned his crimson robes and grabbed his broom, and run out to the pitch, only to find that it wasn’t _really_ a Quidditch practice at all, but it was _completely pointless_ _Seeker_ _practice_.

Merlin’s stomach grumbled irritably as he trudged back up to the castle in silence, while Arthur walked beside him talking of his plans to defeat Slytherin and squinting at everything (he’d lost his glasses again). Apparently Arthur didn’t only want to beat his sister’s team ( _half-_ sister’s team, actually), he wanted to _crush_ them into oblivion. In order to do that, Merlin needed to hang around dodgers Bludgers and players alike until Gryffindor had pulled at least a hundred points ahead of Slytherin, making sure that Mordred didn’t catch the Snitch.

Merlin might have thought it was a good plan, might have listened more willingly, if he weren’t so pissed off. He now had the Wronksi Feint down pat, but the Plumpton Pass was giving him trouble—no matter what he did, he couldn’t scoop the Snitch into the sleeve of his robes. Arthur had only called it quits because it’d gotten too dark to see.

As they climbed the entrance stair, Merlin found that he wished he were in Slytherin or Hufflepuff because their House dorms were in the dungeons and basement, respectively. He was too tired to climb seven floors, and Arthur was seriously grating on his nerves as he relaunched into the _exact_ same plan he’d been going over for the last fifteen minutes. Merlin, from the entrance, turned toward the grand stairs.

“…And if you can catch it _after_ we’ve got a hun—hold on, where do you think you are going?”

Merlin snapped out of his trance and turned. Arthur was standing several feet away, squinting. He’d been going in the opposite direction. “ _I’m_ going to bed,” he said. “Unlike you, I’ve had a bloody awful day, and I’d really like to lie down and have a sleep, and maybe have a bit of cry too, if you don’t mind.”

Arthur frowned, looking appalled at the very idea. “A cry?”

Merlin flushed, turning. “See you later, you supercilious prat.”

“Well, _I’m_ going to the kitchens,” Arthur snapped back, taking on the same irritated tone that Merlin had used. “I’d really like to sit down and have a hot meal, and maybe have a bit of butterbeer too, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Merlin stopped and turned, surprised. “The kitchens?” His stomach rumbled loudly, encouraging him to follow his captain. “Where’re they?”

“Hufflepuff corridor,” Arthur said shortly, spinning on his heel and striding away, his broom over his shoulder and chin held high. His crimson Quidditch robes, a golden 04 beneath a block-lettered PENDRAGON emblazoned on the back, flapped behind him like a regal cape. (Merlin’s number was 17, centered below an identical font that read EMRYS, but that wasn’t necessarily important.)

Giving in to hunger’s persuasion, Merlin stomped back down the steps like an uncoordinated horse, arms out for balance. “Wait up! Wait, Arthur, wait!” He careened around the corner and ran smack into him, nearly sending them both sprawling to the floor.

“Watch it!” Arthur cried, turning to shoot him a glare over his shoulder. “Come on, idiot. And be quiet.”

“Tell that to my stomach,” Merlin muttered, pressing a fist against his belly as it demanded sustenance once more.

He led the way forward, without looking back. Merlin had the idea that Arthur was a bit miffed with him, but what to do? He was in a churlish mood on account of having eaten nothing all day—not a single morsel to give him the energy that he needed to be in good cheer. Besides, it’s not like Arthur had apologized for overworking him or anything. So why should Merlin?

“I’m sorry,” he blurted.

Damn his desperate-to-please personality.

“ _Shh!_ ” was Arthur’s only response.

But the floodgates were opened, and Merlin couldn’t stop: “It’s just that I haven’t eaten anything today, and when I don’t eat I turn into a right troll, you understand, it’s a horrible affliction, and also this morning I stubbed my toes and I lost Gryffindor ten points—sorry about that, but I’m sure we’ll earn them back in no time—and then you sort of lied to me about having Quidditch practice and all, because that was _Seeker_ practice…”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, turning with a pleasant smile. Merlin silenced mid-tirade, silence reverberating in the stone corridor. “Do shut up.”

Merlin’s jaw clicked shut, and Arthur resumed his long stride. “Sorry.”

“Nng!” Arthur grunted in annoyance, head tipped back as though he would find something with which to gag the Seeker on the ceiling.

“Well, you prattled all the way back to the castle, and that was a fifteen minute walk. Why aren’t I allowed to talk?”

“Because, _Mer_ lin, we’re not supposed to _be_ here!” he hissed.

“Oh. Why didn’t you say so?”

“Merlin?”

“Shut up?”

“Precisely.”

Merlin tried to remember the directions they took in case he ever needed to find the kitchens again. It could be very useful in the future. Luckily, it wasn’t too difficult to find.

They made another turn into a smaller corridor, the torches burning brightly and warmly. Merlin passed close to one, feeling chilly in the lower passages of the castle. Arthur stopped in front of a painting of a bowl of fruit.

“Arthur,” Merlin complained. “It’s a lovely still life and all, but—“

As he spoke, Arthur flapped one hand at him in a shushing motion, his other raising. He scratched at the green paint of the pear, much to Merlin’s shock. If he damaged the painting, what would—but he didn’t even have time to finish the thought, because the pear began to giggle and squirm.

Merlin hadn’t known pears were ticklish. Suddenly he felt bad for all the pears he’d ever eaten, because surely if they were ticklish then they must have felt the pain of him eating them—no, that was ridiculous. Merlin needed to get some food in his system before he really went crazy.

The painted pear morphed into a green doorknob, which Arthur turned and pushed. The large still life was a door, Merlin saw. And how appropriate a door for a kitchen it was. Inside, he had one brief glimpse of an enormous, high-ceilinged room, large as the Great Hall above it, with mounds of glittering brass pots and pans heaped around the stone walls, and a great brick fireplace at the other end. That was as much as he saw before there was a flurry of movement below him.

“House elves!” Merlin uttered, eyebrows shooting up in surprise and delight.

The knobby-kneed creatures bent low to them, squeaking excitedly. They all wore tea towels with the Hogwarts crest embroidered on.

“Good evening, Mr. Pendragon, sir!” cried one happy elf. “To you and to your friend!”

“Yes, thank you,” Arthur said. “Sorry, but would it be at all possible for us to get something to eat? Merlin and I missed dinner, you see.”

“Of course!” several exclaimed in unison. Immediately the crowd of elves dispersed, scampering about. Pots and pans clanged loudly, the fire roared up, and the boys were herded to one of the tables. They leant their broomsticks carefully at the end of the bench out of the way.

While Arthur seemed entirely too used to seeing this procession, Merlin turned his head every which way, watching in amazement at the sheer efficiency. The house elves rushed about, climbing ladders to reach the topmost shelves of herbs, standing on one another’s shoulders to stir big cauldrons of broth, hefting large bags of food to and fro as needed. And they all seemed incredibly happy to do it.

“Excuse me, Mr. Pendragon, sir!” squeaked a voice higher in pitch than usual.

Both of them turned to see a small elf holding a small cylindrical cloth in her hands.

“Yes?” Arthur prompted, squinting.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but Tilly found these at the edge of the Black Lake when she went searching for weeds.” She nervously unwrapped the cloth to reveal Arthur’s spectacles.

“Brilliant!” Arthur said, taking them and putting them on his face. “Thank you, Tilly.”

Tilly beamed, bowing low and backing away.

Merlin turned to Arthur. “You left your glasses at the edge of Black Lake?”

“No,” Arthur said. “I’ve not been anywhere near the Lake. Obviously someone thinks it’s funny to take my things.”

“Thing.”

“What?”

Merlin cocked an eyebrow. “They’ve only been taking your glasses, which is just one thing. If I were you, I’d invest in contacts.”

“In _what_?”

“Honestly, don’t you ever pay attention in Muggle Studies?”

Arthur frowned, apparently thinking hard. “Contacts…You mean those lens contraptions Muggles stick directly to their eyeballs?!” A shudder wracked his body at the very thought of it. “Can you imagine living like Muggles? The things they _do_ to themselves!”

Merlin rolled his eyes, quite certain that Muggles would be just as appalled with the things witches and wizards did.

Just then, the house elves came bearing huge platters of delicacies over their heads. These foods were laid across the table before them, each house elf bowing deeply and scooting back, only to return a moment later with more food. Merlin’s mouth watered as he took it in: roasted meats, assortments of steamed vegetables, several types of breads and cheeses, pumpkin juice and butterbeer, caramels, sweet biscuits, cakes, and even a large bowl of Bertie Bott’s All-Flavor Beans, several handfuls of which Merlin stuffed into his pockets for later. Arthur pushed his plate forward with a scrape and began piling stuff onto it, and Merlin followed his lead under the anxiously delighted gazes of the house elves.

Somehow the food tasted even more wonderful than usual, and Merlin couldn’t help the deep moan of pleasure he made after taking his first bite. The house elves shook and jumped in victory, silently bathing each other in tears and patting one another on the back. Merlin supposed they weren’t all that often complimented.

“So good,” Merlin told them between bites.

“Thank you, sir! Thank you, thank you!” came a bubbly chorus in response.

He and Arthur ate their fill quickly. They would have to get back to Gryffindor Tower before they were missed; after all, people might go searching, and it wouldn’t do to be found wandering the corridors together. People would talk.

The house elves tried to send leftovers with them, just in case they were to get hungry in the middle of the night, but only Merlin accepted a loaf of fresh bread and a small jar of strawberry jam. Brooms over their shoulders, they hurried out, Arthur checking to be sure the coast was clear.

“Maybe if we had a magic map,” Merlin whispered behind Arthur as they snuck around another corner, “that showed where everyone in the castle is. It would make sneaking around much easier. Or an invisibility cloak.”

“Shut up, _Mer_ lin.”

“Yes, Mr. Pendragon, sir.”

“ _Merlin_.”

Eventually, they made it back to their own corridor. There had only been one near mishap when a sleepy-looking ghost had glided right past them as they got to the grand staircase. But the ghost had merely nodded at them, unperturbed by their presence—after all, the pair were back where they had reason to be. They could claim to have just come from the Quidditch pitch, or even from the library.

“Babbity Rabbity,” Arthur said imperiously to the Fat Lady who guarded the door to Gryffindor Tower.

“Precisely,” she chuckled endearingly, swinging forwards to let them pass.

Inside, the Gryffindor common was occupied by several groups of students. One was sitting by the low fire, some in the plush chairs or leaning against them on the floor, chattering animatedly; in the far corner a group of third years were frantically copying one another’s essays for Defense against the Dark Arts; another crowded around a pair of seventh years playing an intense game of wizard chess in which it was not quite clear who had the upper hand.

“Well,” Merlin said, shifting his broomstick awkwardly and nearly (only nearly, mind you) dropping his jam jar. “I’m calling it an early night.”

“Fine,” Arthur said, ambling over to the group by the fire. He slid seamlessly into the conversation, laughing and grinning.

Merlin watched him for a moment as though waiting for something. A ‘good night, Merlin,’ or a ‘you did well today, Merlin,’ or some such parting. ‘Fine’ wasn’t a farewell at all, in Merlin’s opinion. ‘Fine’ was what one said when one was hurt and trying to hide it, or when one was feeling short-tempered and trying to escape. Merlin wasn’t quite sure to which scenario Arthur’s ‘fine’ belonged.

He snorted derisively and readjusted his broomstick on his shoulder again, making toward the stair that led up to the boys’ dormitories. It was a bit of a job to open the door, finally managing it after tucking his broom under the arm that held the bread and jam and using his free hand to turn the knob. The circular room was lined at intervals with five four-poster beds, the foots of which were pointed toward the heater at the center that came as a relief in winter time, when a magic flame would burn and keep the chill away. Merlin’s bed was the closest to the door. He’d been forced to trade with Gilli during the first week when Merlin’s clumsy prattling about and hushed cursing had woken everyone and their neighbors.

The broom was placed lovingly on the tarnished stand that helped to prevent the twigs from being bent. The bread and jam awaited Merlin’s midnight hunger dutifully on the stand, but a moment later Merlin thought better of leaving it out and put them in the drawer. He wasn’t going to risk the delicious snack being stolen, not when he lived with four other hungry boys. Merlin knelt down and dug around under his bed, knocking aside rubbish and spare quills and things until he found the object of his search.

He dragged the heavy tome out, the old leather casing fraying at the edges and along the spine. Merlin brushed it off reverently, feeling the smooth ridges of the lettering. He put it on the bed, then slipped out of his robes (Bertie Bott’s Beans skittered all over the floor, and Merlin gave a very put-upon sigh before ignoring the mess) and into his faded blue cotton pajamas before climbing in with it. With a lazy flick of his wand, the curtains swished shut and gave him some much-wanted privacy.

“ _Lumos_ ,” he whispered. The tip of his wand lit up, shining like a distant star. It was just enough light, tinted slightly blue, to give him to read, and yet not enough to cast shadows through the fabric of his curtains.

The book was one he’d received from Uncle Gaius, a sort of welcoming gift to the school and a congratulations on being sorted into Gryffindor. Merlin had always thought Gaius was too good to him: Gaius had bought him his wand, too, at Ollivander’s, and had given him some potions ingredients from his own stores. Despite his mother being a professor, money had always been tight since his father had died—not to mention that his mother’s ex-boyfriend, Cenred, had emptied their Gringott’s vault and disappeared.

He set the book in his lap and opened it, relishing the sound of crinkling pages, and the faint musty smell that came from it. It was old, older than Gaius, who had gotten it from his father, who had gotten it from his father, who had gotten it from a strange merchant / treasure hunter with hairy ears, who had gotten it from an old forgotten trunk in an ancient library. The tome was one of spells, most of which by then had been simplified or gone out of practice. Some were too complicated for Merlin to even attempt. Not that he particularly wanted to bring a statue of a dog to life or anything like that. He mostly enjoyed reading through it, lips silently forming the foreign words that would help him direct his natural abilities toward the result, imagining himself performing the seemingly endless list. His great-uncle knew him too well.

It wasn’t too long before Merlin head the door open, Gilli and George laughing about something. They quieted suddenly, though, still snickering softly. The door was shut softly, their footsteps shuffling toward Gilli’s bed, presumably to continue their conversation in whispers. A small smile turned up Merlin’s lips. Even if he wasn’t particularly close to the boys (he simply didn’t understand their humor— _brass_ jokes, really?) he couldn’t say that he didn’t like them. Not when they were so, well, polite.

He continued perusing through the various uses for a spell that caused the thick hides of trolls to break out in humungous purple boils ( _thee rancid Puss from such Boils soothes Burnes from thee Wyvernes of thee Seas_ ), the tip of his wand hovering centimeters from the lines of olden calligraphy. He had to take extra care that the pages didn’t crinkle because he didn’t want anyone to know he was awake.

Merlin had gotten through three more pages, which took an impressive lot of time considering how quick a reader he was, when Gilli and George said good night. He waited until the sounds of their settling had ceased, then whispered, “ _Nox_ ,” to extinguish his wandlight, and silently closed his book. The reading material was scooted back under the bed, and his wand placed on the bedside table. Merlin retrieved the bread and jam from his drawer and began to eat his fill.

Dipping a chunk of torn bread into the jam jar, Merlin pondered the whereabouts of his dear friend Will. He’d not seen him since class many hours ago. Usually he and Will ate together, but today that hadn’t been possible. Will hadn’t been in the common room when he’d returned with Arthur, nor had he been in his bed. Neither had their last roommate been in, Morris, but he was hardly ever around; Merlin really didn’t care about him at the moment.

Perhaps he had finally made up with Freya.

Merlin brightened at the thought. The two were too good friends to be fighting like they had, and in any case it drove Merlin bonkers trying to divide his time between them. Everything would be better tomorrow, as his mother always used to tell him. No longer concerned over his friends’ fight, he didn’t even bother trying to discern the reason the fight had started anyway. It didn’t matter, and it was none of his business. Freya and Will could work out their own problems. And they both would talk to him tomorrow.

He finished up the snack, licking his fingers clean of sticky crumbs, and set the jar back on the table. The door opened as he withdrew his hand, and the familiar sound of Will’s heavy feet shuffled along the floor toward his bed. Merlin nodded in satisfaction as he heard Will flump onto his mattress, and laid down to sleep.

His first class was in double Potions with Gaius tomorrow, and it wouldn’t do to look dead on his feet.


	4. Chapter 4

~4~

At breakfast, Merlin kipped over to the Ravenclaw table to say hello to Freya. She smiled brightly at him, asking how Quidditch practice had been. Merlin shrugged and said it was all right (after having slept on it, Merlin decided that Arthur was right to have had the Seeker training—he did need to become accustomed to the school field and all). Since the Hall was filling up with hungry students, they bade each other a quick farewell and a promise to see one another in Potions. Ravenclaw and Gryffindor were doubled on Tuesday mornings.

Merlin found Will and plopped down next to him, reaching for a slice of toast. He noticed that Will looked tired. And cranky.

“What’s got you all buggered this morning?” Merlin asked, raising an eyebrow in imitation of his uncle.

“Nothing,” Will said shortly, eyebrows drawn together. “What, haven’t you got Quidditch practice or something?”

Merlin lowered his toast, looking partially hurt and concerned. “No,” he said slowly. “We’ve got Potions today, remember?”

“Not going to sit with your team, then?”

“Well, I could, but…” Merlin cast a glance down the table, where Elyan looked about to fall face-first into his porridge despite Leon constantly nudging him awake. Arthur was voraciously tearing into a literal handful of bacon as Mithian looked on in disgust, bowl of cereal forgotten. Gwen and Lancelot were nowhere to be seen. “I want to sit with you.”

Will didn’t respond, merely viciously impaled a sausage link with his fork.

“Will, are you all right?”

“Fine.”

Merlin was silent for a moment, no longer feeling quite so happy to greet the day. Freya had seemed quite contented, the polar opposite of how Will was. Perhaps they hadn’t fixed the problem between them? He set his toast down on his plate and stood. “I’ll be right back,” he said, hurrying away.

If Will had acknowledged him, Merlin hadn’t heard it. He stopped again at the Ravenclaw table. Freya had already turned, alerted to his presence by one of her friends seated across from her. Her smile dampened when she saw his troubled expression.

Both opened their mouths at the same instant and blurted, “What’s wrong?”

Freya clamped her lips and indicated that he should speak. Merlin opened his mouth, but then looked uncomfortably at her three friends, who were pretending to be wholly preoccupied with their food but were so obviously listening.

“Excuse me,” Freya said, reading Merlin’s gaze correctly.

They walked a bit farther on and stopped face-to-face out of the way of traffic.

“What is it, Merlin?”

“Will,” he said. “He’s…well, he’s…” Merlin found himself unable to describe it, glancing back over his shoulder. Freya followed his gaze, standing up on her tip-toes to get a look.

“Oh, for Merlin’s beard!” she huffed. Without another word, she strode off to the Gryffindor table, Merlin following in befuddlement. She stopped behind Will and folded her arms, then cleared her throat impatiently.

Will turned and gazed at her coolly. “Du Lac,” he said.

Freya was apparently unimpressed. “ _Du Lac_ , huh? As _if_ we don’t know one another.”

Merlin looked decidedly lost.

“Get over yourself, you moron,” she said. “Just because you’re jealous and lonely doesn’t mean you have to take it out on us!” Will bristled, but had no chance to let out a scathing comment because Freya continued, flapping her hand at him in admonishment: “In case you hadn’t realized, _you_ were the one who first encouraged Merlin to try out for the team.”

“Well, I didn’t think he’d make it!” he responded hotly.

Merlin’s breath hitched in his chest, hurt. Several conversations had stopped, interrupted by Will’s outburst. Just as soon as he’d said it, though, Will appeared to have become aware of Merlin’s presence; he paled considerably under Merlin’s sad gaze, shoulders sinking guiltily.

“Hey,” he said softly, “Merlin, I…I didn’t mean that!”

“It’s alright,” Merlin said, a bit stilted. He forced a grin onto his face. “I didn’t expect…Well, I thought I hadn’t made…”

Freya turned and gave Merlin a sympathetic look that hardened when she turned back to Will. “I think you’d best think about what exactly your friendship means to you,” she said coldly. “No one likes a sore loser, William Wiga.” With that she spun on her heel again and returned to her table.

After a moment of hesitation, Will turned back to his plate, aghast. The owl post arrived, hundreds of birds of all sorts swooping through the Hall and dropping mail and packages before the students to whom they belonged. Nothing came for them. Merlin resumed his place at his side and picked up his cold toast.

“Is that…” Merlin trailed off, unsure what he wanted to say. He watched the owls leave out of the windows from which they came.

Will seemed to understand. “What we fought about the other day? Yeah. Yes, it was.”

Merlin nodded, his chest still feeling rather tight.

“I just thought it might be fun,” Will said quietly, pushing his sausage around his plate. “I didn’t think either of us would make it, I just wanted to, you know. For the sake of it. And then when we found out that you’d made Seeker, well, I was really happy for you, honest. But then it sort of sunk in, you know.”

“I made the team and you didn’t,” Merlin said. “We won’t have as much time together anymore.”

“Yeah. And considering that you and Freya are my only friends…Well. Maybe now I don’t have any friends, what with how horrible I’ve been of late.” He leaned forward and braced his elbows on the edge of the table, staring forlornly down at his plate. “I’m sorry.”

Tears stung Merlin’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, too. I didn’t realize—“

“Shut up, you bastard,” Will said fondly. “It’s not your place to apologize when you’re not in the wrong.”

The corners of Merlin’s lips quirked up. “Come on. We’ll be late for Potions, and you know Gaius won’t hesitate to take ten points from us both.”

“You’re right. I’ll try and make up with Freya when we get there, too.”

They both snatched a fresh piece of toast and hurried off to the apothecary, which was located in the tower that overlooked the Whomping Willow. The class used to be in the dungeons, but Gaius abhorred the damp, and the chill air was no good for his rheumatics.

As it turned out, when Freya saw that they were laughing and talking as they normally did, she warmed up considerably toward Will and hadn’t even needed an apology. Merlin, in good spirits, had done exceptionally well in Potions that day. He’d earned Gryffindor ten points with his Deflating Draught. Gaius had even bottled the solution to keep in case it was needed (“No sense in wasting a perfectly good concoction, m’boy,” he’d winked with a proud smile). Although it hadn’t been a surprise, really, as Potions was his best subject.

They had Herbology with the dreaded Professor Borden in the afternoon, so after a quick spell in the library to work on Professor Iseldir’s essay, they went in to eat lunch, bidding farewell to Freya. Merlin had a hearty meal that filled his stomach far better than had the single slice of toast from the morning. On his way out, Gwen and Mithian, looking hassled with a book between their plates (they were desperately studying for a sixth-year Transfiguration exam), both managed to smile and wave at him before bowing their heads and flipping hazardously through the pages.

It was a nice warm day, and the boys could only hope that the bright sun had put the professor in good spirits. From the top of the hill on their way to the Greenhouse, Merlin could see several figures flitting about the Quidditch pitch, moving impressively in unison and breaking apart like a school of fish and moving back together into a unit. It was Team Slytherin, if Merlin remembered correctly. He stood and watched them practice their drills for a moment. They were _very_ good, the lot of them. But surely Gryffindor was better.

Feeling rather confident in the first game of the season—upcoming in three weeks, Gryffindor against Slytherin—Merlin caught up with Will and they argued amiably about whether Dryads existed (an ongoing debate that had begun several years ago when they had fallen asleep in a forest; Will insisted that he’d had an adventure with one, but Merlin didn’t believe it for a second).

As it happened, Professor Borden was _not_ in any particularly pleasant mood. He prowled the aisles between the students, who were grouped up in threes as they desperately tried to fulfill his assignment: collect and drain five bubotubers of their pus before the end of class. By the end of it, Merlin and Will, as well as everyone _but_ the professor, were thoroughly battered and grumbling under their breaths. Gryffindor lost thirty points that dreadful period.

But even that wasn’t quite enough to put a damper on Merlin’s humor. He and Will enthusiastically abused Professor Borden’s character and ugly demeanor on their way back to the castle. Their classes were finished for the day, and they decided to go and take a bath, have some dinner, and do their homework in the library. They figured Freya would take pity on them if they were to show her their collection of scratches and bruises from their bubotuber plant beating and she would help them find the answers they needed.

As they crossed the grounds, Merlin spotted Gwaine, who instantly saw him. “Oi, Merlin!” he called, waving. “Come ‘ere, come ‘ere!”

Merlin exchanged a look with Will, who shrugged, and they jogged across the green expanse of lawn to join them. Getting closer, the pair saw that Gwaine wasn’t alone, but had been passing an unremarkable kickball amongst two friends. The one was built so largely that Merlin had no doubt that he had some giant blood in him—he wasn’t prejudiced, and in fact had befriended a giant in the forest once—but he had such a kindly face that there was also no doubt that he was completely harmless. The girl was at least a head and half shorter than Merlin, with frizzy blond hair and a huge toothy grin. She managed to somehow kick the ball behind her and ran off to chase it, tripping over her feet once or twice.

“Ah,” Gwaine said reminiscently when they approached. “Bubotubers?”

Merlin and Will nodded.

“My friends,” Gwaine said, looking at Merlin but apparently encompassing the lot of them, “let us have a moment of introductions. Merlin, meet Will Wiga. Will, meet Merlin Emrys. Merlin, meet Percy Graal. Percy, meet Merlin. Merlin, meet Elena Sidhe—aye, cousin of that awful Sophia Sidhe from Slytherin. Elena, meet Merlin. Will, meet Percy. Percy, meet Will. Will, meet Elena. Elena, meet Will. Everyone, everyone. And, it goes without saying, Gwaine Greene.”

Merlin shook hands with each of them (yes, including a slightly confounded looking Will) as instructed.

“We’ve heard so much about you, Merlin!” Elena said excitedly, shaking the entire length of his arm. “Gryffindor’s new Seeker, right? Excellent, you’re definitely built for it. Me, I couldn’t play Quidditch, I’m too clumsy! Percy’s too heavy for broomsticks, too, so that’s us!”

Merlin grinned.

“We’ll be cheering Gryffindor, of course,” Percy said.

“Not that we don’t like Slytherin,” Elena said quickly, “it’s just that Gwaine’s friends are our friends and all.”

“I understand,” Merlin laughed. “Thanks for the support anyway!”

Gwaine slung an arm around Merlin and Will’s shoulders. “Right, so I’ll be commentating on the match. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to throw in a few pointers for the ladies—or lads, if ye be into that, and no judgment here, my friend—who’ll be vying for ye, mate. And Will, I meant to ask, but bugger me I’d forgotten! Listen, ye don’t have to answer me now, but think on it, eh?”

“Think on what?” Will asked apprehensively.

Gwaine grinned briefly, but then sobered and put on a sad expression. “Seeing how I’m a seventh-year and all—my last year, ye understand—I need someone to take over for me when I’m gone. Now normally that wouldn’t be a problem, but I need someone to carry on my legacy!”

“Legacy?” he repeated uncertainly.

“Aye,” Gwaine nodded, then flicked his bangs back out of his eyes. “I need an apprentice, and ye seem to be right up commentator alley.”

“Me? Commentator?”

“Sleep on it, eh?” Gwaine winked. “Now ye lads get moving, preferably to the baths! Ye stink like soured milk and plant rot.”

Merlin surreptitiously smelled the sleeve of his robe as Gwaine, Percy, and Elena headed off, presumably to find a flatter patch of land to accommodate Elena’s clumsiness. Will just stared after them, starry-eyed. The raven-haired boy nudged him with an elbow. “We do stink,” he said urgently. “Freya won’t come near us, let alone help us, if we don’t clean up!”

The rest of their trek consisted of an animated discussion of whether Will should accept Gwaine’s offer. Merlin encouraged it, though perhaps a little reservedly. Gwaine was a nice bloke, certainly, but also a little loose-tongued. Merlin could only imagine the sorts of things Gwaine would be saying during the match (“ _Ladies—or blokes if yer into that, no judgment ‘ere—if yer interested in number 17, Merlin Emrys, he’s a nice chap! Ye can find him in the third floor toilet eating chocolates on the days when Professor Nimueh screeches death premonitions at him._ ”), and he could only hope that the innocence of the youngsters in the crowd remained intact by the time it was over. Although, Merlin had attended all of the Quidditch matches throughout his first three years at Hogwarts, and Gwaine had commentated most of them—he’d only been reprimanded a few times for shouting obscenities at one player or another.

He brightened considerably at the thought. Perhaps this way Will wouldn’t be so put out by Merlin being on the team. Because let’s face it—without a commentator, Quidditch was just a vague series of blurs and streaks with a roaring crowd. Someone had to know what was happening.

The boys stopped by their dorm to grab up their cleanest smelling robes and underpants, then journeyed to the bath. Since they were best friends, and the tub was large enough that they could submerge themselves in the foamy water without touching, they shared one, occasionally pointing out oddly-shaped bruises that they found on themselves as they washed. Merlin had a fantastic one (he was quite proud of it, really) that looked a bit like Australia below his left nipple.

“So,” Will said conversationally, which meant that he was fishing for something with which to tease Merlin, “how’s that Pendragon bloke?”

“Still a prat,” Merlin said lightly, scrubbing his foot with soap. “But he seems kind of…nice?”

“Nice?” Will grabbed Merlin’s ears in his wet hands and turned him toward him. “He hasn’t taken advantage of you, has he? Have you been deflowered? Cherry popped? Your bowtruckle sprung? Did he touch your wand, Merlin?”

“Gerroff me!” Merlin laughed, slapping his friend’s hands away. Will snickered and retreated back to his side of the tub.

Will slapped water at Merlin. The splash caught him in the face, but he turned away at the last moment and squeezed his eyes shut to protect them from soap.

“Oh yeah?” he growled playfully. In retaliation, Merlin swiped both palms across the surface (most of the bubbles were gone then), sending a mini tsunami crashing into his friend. Will repeated the move, Merlin raising a defensive arm.

Merlin stood suddenly, water cascading down his lithe body in rivulets, grinning evilly. Will’s eyes widened fearfully.

“Oh no,” he said, backing away. His hand scrabbled at the edge of the tub as though intending to pull himself to safety or to hang on for dear life. “Merlin, no! Stop! Don’t!”

But Merlin did it anyway, his most disastrous move: a full-on in-the-tub belly flop.

Water went _everywhere_. It sloshed over the sides of the tub, went up Will’s nose even as he tried to stand and escape, soaked into their clothes and towels they had laid aside, and swallowed up Merlin’s body as it sank like a rock in a pond. Merlin and Will both came up choking on water and giggles.

“ _Oi!_ ” snapped a voice, echoing through the chamber over the rapport of angry footfalls. Merlin and Will crouched behind the wall of the tub, wincing. “This is a _bath_ , not a—oh.”

They shouldn’t have been quite as surprised as they were to find the Gryffindor Prefect Arthur squinting at them (he wasn’t wearing his glasses—he’d probably lost them again) from a few feet away, standing right at the edge of the huge bathwater puddle Merlin had made. A few pathetic bubbles skated the surface of the shallow pool.

Merlin grinned brightly. “Hi, Arthur! So, Quidditch practice Thursday, right? Oh, and Will’s going to be Gwaine’s apprentice! Look at this bruise I’ve got, it’s shaped like Aus—“

“Merlin’s beard,” Will exclaimed, “your face is getting all red, Pendragon!”

That seemed to make Arthur snap. “Of all the irresponsible—I—you— _Mer_ lin,” he growled. “I was in the middle of studying for an important exam when someone fetched me and said there were people in the bath doing improper things!”

“Improper things?” the fourth years repeated, exchanging a confused look.

“Now listen,” Arthur said, holding up a hand to silence them and pinching the bridge of his nose with his other, “I can’t stop you from—from, well, you know, but you _can’t_ do it in the bath. It’s a public place, you know!”

“Do _it_?” they parroted, looking only more confounded.

Arthur pointed a stern finger, looking flushed out of embarrassment more than anger now. “This is your only warning, the both of you!” He spun on his heel and hurried out, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to look composed and dignified.

Merlin and Will frowned.

“Well, perhaps we went a bit overboard with the splash fight,” Merlin conceded, rubbing the back of his neck. He shivered at the touch of cool air on his shoulders, a few beads of water sliding down his pale skin.

“Yeah,” Will agreed. “Pompous ass, he was. ‘Improper things in the bath.’ Well, I don’t see a list of rules forbidding having fun!”

“Come on,” Merlin said, climbing out. “I’m starving.”

Merlin found his wand in the pocket of his dirtied robes, and performed a complicated little wave that produced a stream of hot air. He made quick work of drying off the towels and their clean clothes. They dressed, feeling much warmer after having done so. The dirty robes they left lying on the floor for the house elves to find. The little creatures would wash and return them while they were sleeping, more likely than not, so they weren’t worried about it.

After a quick stop at their room to grab their bags so that they could go to the library once dinner was finished, they made their way to the Great Hall among a horde of other hungry students.

“Shall we sit with your Quidditch friends?” Will asked, jerking his head toward the table.

Merlin glanced over and saw them huddled together at one end. Gwen and Mithian were laughing at something Lancelot was saying, and Elyan was just arriving. He sat next to his sister, apparently inquiring what was so funny. Arthur and Leon weren’t there yet.

“Let’s go ask Freya to the library first,” Merlin suggested, turning toward Ravenclaw table. Upon finding her and approaching, Merlin complained, “Freya, I’ve got a bruise shaped like Australia from a bubotuber plant!”

She arched her eyebrows mildly. “Then perhaps your aunt or uncle can give you some ointment,” she said. “Just because you’ve got a few bruises like everyone else doesn’t mean I’ll do your work for you!”

“Merlin got knocked out today,” Will lied, patting Merlin’s head as though it were the snout of an agitated horse. He planted a swift, brotherly kiss on the jetty locks. “Can’t remember a thing, poor bloke.”

“Did I?” Merlin asked quizzically. He honestly couldn’t put it past himself to have been knocked out and forgotten about it; it’s happened often enough.

Freya seemed to think so, too, because her amused expression became tinted with concern. “Did you see Alice?”

“Yes,” Will said, “he doesn’t remember that, either. Alice said the amnesia oughtn’t to be too bad, though. He does remember seeing Gwaine and his friends on the way to see her.”

Merlin lamented the fact that he honestly couldn’t tell whether his best friend was lying or not. He was starting to doubt his own sanity and to contemplate his own existence as Descartes had when he’d been incurably Confunded.

“Well,” Freya said, “I’ll see you at the library, then.”

“Great, thanks!” Will beamed. Merlin smiled and waved at her as Will steered him back to Gryffindor table where their friends sat.

He forgot to ask whether Will had been telling the truth (and shouldn’t _that_ have been testament!) because when they arrived they were greeted quite cheerfully by everyone except Arthur, who was busy examining the lenses of his glasses (he’d found them under the bed, which was far too easy for once) for specks of dust. Merlin had never had quite so many friends before. It was a bit overwhelming, but he found that he rather liked it, having a good time with more than two people at once. It was a nice change.

While listening to one of Leon’s jokes and eating spaghetti, Merlin felt a small tingling sensation. He glanced across the Hall, toward the Slytherin table. And locked gazes with an eerie pair of eyes in a pale round face.

_Emrys_.

“What?”

The buzzing immediately around him stopped, and eyes still twinkling a bit with mirth turned to him. “Did you not get it?” Elyan asked kindly, chuckling. “It’s funny because—“

“No, someone said my name,” Merlin said, looking round in confusion. His teammates helped him look around, but there was no one in hearing range that might have tried to get his attention. Merlin even looked up to the teacher’s table, but his mum, uncle, and aunt were all deep in conversation.

“Maybe you’re hearing things, Merlin,” Will said. He turned to offer an explanation to the rest of them: “He got knocked out by a bubotuber plant today.”

They all winced in sympathy, and even looked a little concerned when Merlin frowned and said, “Did I really?”

“Well,” Arthur said loudly and nonchalantly, “he seemed quite fine when I found you two in the bath not an hour ago.”

Will groaned just as loudly and rolled his eyes, while Merlin blinked at the queer look Arthur had. Everyone else fell silent and watched, eyes perhaps a bit wide at the information. “Come _off_ it, Pendragon. Just because you don’t know how to have fun—“

“I know perfectly well how to have fun, thank you,” Arthur bit out, cheeks flushing. “And I can do it within the parameters of the school’s—“

“What, are you _jealous_ , Pendragon?”

“No! I’m simply saying that _Mer_ lin seemed perfectly capable of—“

“Ah, so you _are_ jealous!” Will said triumphantly, jabbing a finger at him. “You _were_ trying to steal Merlin away from me! Well, it obviously won’t work, because Merlin’s _my_ b—“

“Now hold on,” Leon snapped, interrupting the argument. Will and Arthur, both looking to be on the edge of a fistfight, looked sharply toward him. “Let’s not argue. After all, Merlin’s on the team now,” he directed this bit to Arthur, who scowled and looked away, “and no one’s stealing anyone from anyone else.”

Merlin looked entirely flabbergasted, and Gwen put a soothing hand on his shoulder.

“Besides,” Gwen added, “obviously poor Merlin’s not completely recovered from his concussion! Look at how confused and pale he is.”

The girls and Lancelot proceeded to fuss over him, Mithian even offering to go up and fetch Alice for him.

Somehow, Merlin managed to extradite himself from their grasps, and he and Will made a quick getaway to the library. When Freya arrived, they filled her in on what had happened, and she had seemed just as confused as Merlin was.

“It sounds almost like he’s…” she trailed off uncertainly, then shook her head. “No, never mind. Now, how’s your head feeling, Merlin? Up for a study session?”

Merlin resigned himself to learning about the properties of moon stones and their effects when used incorrectly. But all the while, he couldn’t stop thinking about Arthur’s strange behavior, and the voice that had come from inside his head.


	5. Chapter 5

~5~

“There’s a duel in the courtyard!” bellowed a voice.

Merlin and Will jolted to their feet excitedly. It was study hour, and they were absolutely bored out of their minds. A duel was a _godsend_. Under Freya’s disapproving glare, they abandoned their quills and rushed to the windows that overlooked the square, already crowded with shining faces, and looked out.

Sure enough, in the center of a large ring made up of closely-pressed bodies, stood two figures, their wands at the ready. One was a blond boy, and the other was a girl with long black hair, shorter than him but obviously capable of standing her ground.

“Who is it? Who is it?”

“It’s the Pendragons!”

“ _What_?”

Merlin did a double take and squeezed closer, pressing the air out of Will’s lungs. Yes, he recognized that set in the shoulders, the imperious lift of the chin. The one was certainly Arthur. And then he remembered those dark ringlets: they belonged to a girl to whom Gwen had waved—the girl with the pale face. Morgana Pendragon, sixth-year Captain of the Slytherin team.

“What are they fighting for?” Merlin asked, a bit worried.

So far the siblings ( _half_ -siblings, insisted a snooty voice in the back of Merlin’s head) hadn’t done anything but glare with their wands at the ready. And no one seemed to know why it was that they were dueling in the first place.

And then they moved, practically at the same time. But their wands moved differently, their lips formed different words: they had performed different spells. When Morgana stumbled back a few steps, her wand wrenching out of her grip and flying far out of reach, it was clear that Arthur had used a good old-fashioned disarming spell. Arthur, however, was struck hard by whatever spell she had used (probably _stupefy_ ). He was knocked backwards a few feet and to the ground, but struggled back up into a sitting position, swaying dangerously. His wand shook, but remained pointed at her.

Arthur had won.

Morgana stormed away, presumably to retrieve her wand, and several people went to Arthur’s side. Merlin recognized Leon and Elyan. Some students turned away, disappointed that the duel had ended so quickly, while others chattered approvingly about Gryffindor’s win. Merlin watched as Leon pulled Arthur’s arm around his shoulder and led him off, the blond at last succumbing to the force of the spell. He frowned.

Although the duel had seemed legitimate, had followed the rules, Merlin couldn’t help but to worry. Students weren’t supposed to be using magic like that unsupervised, and Arthur was a Prefect. Both participants were Captain of their Houses’ Quidditch teams. Merlin could only hope that there wouldn’t be any serious repercussions, like canceling the first match of the season. And besides that, he wondered as he returned to his seat and tuned out the buzz around him, what _had_ instigated the duel anyway?

He didn’t know Morgana, so he couldn’t rule out the possibility that she had challenged him. Arthur might have challenged _her_ , if he had been angry enough, but Merlin couldn’t quite see that happening, not in the middle of a school day. It could have been a heat of the moment thing, really, which was what made the most sense. If _both_ had been angry enough to duel one another, it was only logical to assume that they’d duel immediately. Arthur certainly wasn’t calm enough to _schedule_ a fight.

But then that begged the question: What had made them so angry with each other that they’d _dueled_?

Merlin shook his head, glad that he didn’t have a half-sister. Of course, that was because his mother was luckless in love (he rather thought it had something to do with the way she talked to her plants), but still. He saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to spot a fluffy tail sidling out of the door. Someone’s cat must have gotten loose.

“I _know_ that it doesn’t mean anything,” Will said shortly, flapping his hand.

Merlin jolted, blinking rapidly. “Wha?” he uttered quite eloquently, suddenly realizing that Freya and Will had managed to enter into _another_ argument.

“Well then don’t say things like that!” Freya fumed, her lower lip pouting the way it did when she was irked. “It’s derogatory, not to mention just plain rude!”

“Say what?” Merlin asked, despite his determination to stay out of arguments between his friends.

Will rolled his eyes. “ _All_ I said was that I was impressed that Arthur managed to beat Morgana.”

“ _No_ ,” Freya said ruefully, “what you _said_ was that you were impressed that a half-blood managed to beat a pure-blood.”

Merlin only looked more flummoxed, nose wrinkling. “Huh?”

His friends appraised him for a moment, then exchanged a glance that read ‘let’s call a truce and explain something to our favorite imbecile.’

“Arthur’s mother was a Muggle,” Freya said slowly.

“Oh!” Merlin said, the fuses in his brain finally connecting. “Okay. Arthur’s half Muggle even though he’s completely clueless about Muggles in general. And Morgana’s mother’s the witch. Got it.”

They nodded at him, then returned to their parchments, apparently content that the truce was worth keeping, at least for a while. Merlin idly doodled with his quill on a spare sheet of parchment. He’d already finished his homework, thanks to Gwaine’s helpful pointers. (Because despite the fact that Gwaine was a trouble maker and didn’t have top marks, he was a good student and knew his history.)

“Has anyone seen a pair of spectacles lying around?”

Merlin looked up to the doorway, where stood, of all people, Morgana. Her hands were planted on her hips, her chin held haughtily, green eyes scanning the room.

“Well?”

Then their eyes met. Morgana took on a calculating expression, then, to his horror, entered the room fully and crossed over to him.

“You’re Merlin Emrys.”

It hadn’t been a question, but Merlin nodded in affirmative.

A smile curled up her lips, for a moment making her look cruel—but then her pale features softened and warmed. Merlin was sure that it wasn’t an act.

“I’m Morgana Pendragon, Arthur’s older sister.”

“Half-sister,” Merlin automatically added. Then he bit his cheek in self-admonishment.

Morgana only laughed. “Yes, I see he’s told you about me. I know you haven’t been with him for long, but I wanted to ask: have you _any_ idea _who_ has been taking his glasses? They’ve been showing up in all sorts of odd places. I found them in my slippers just this morning.”

“Wood worms,” he suggested quite eloquently.

She arched a delicate eyebrow, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Wood worms?”

“They’re awful nuisances. Especially in old houses in the woods.”

“Hmm, there goes my dream house.”

Freya spoke up, never ceasing in scribbling out a neat little sentence: “Could it possibly be a house elf?”

Morgana’s eyes landed on the Ravenclaw girl, analyzing her in much the same manner she had Merlin, who wondered if she did that to every new person she met. “An interesting thought, Miss…?”

“Freya du Lac.”

“Lancelot’s cousin,” she mused. “I’ll look into it.”

Will couldn’t stand to be the one left out of the beautiful older girl’s attentions, and piped up rather eagerly. “Could it be Arthur’s magic working subconsciously? Maybe he hates the bloody things.”

Morgana grinned swiftly. “Might be. Well, thanks for your suggestions. It was nice meeting you three. I’ll be—“

“Wait, hold on,” Merlin said, and Morgana stopped so suddenly with such a look of surprise that he was sure she was completely unused to being interrupted. “Um, sorry, but…just a few minutes ago, you and Arthur…out there…” He gestured vaguely to the window, blushing furiously.

Morgana’s eyes flicked to the window and then back, and she laughed again. “Our little show just now? Oh, I noticed Arthur had lost his glasses again, and I suggested he use a Sticking Charm the next time he managed to sight them. He quite impertinently told me that he was just fine without them, and I told him to prove it. I suppose he was right enough, wasn’t he?”

Merlin stared for a moment. “So you weren’t fighting?”

“Merlin, dear,” Morgana smirked, “you don’t want to see us _fighting_. Tell Arthur I said hi.”

With that, she spun primly on her heel and strode out, her curls bouncing elegantly behind her and robes trailing almost like a gown. Will let out a low whistle as she disappeared. He turned to Merlin, arching his brows teasingly. “I think she likes you!”

Merlin wagged his head, then looked at his friend in disbelief. “You think so?”

“Sure!” Will clapped him on the back. “But, seeing as you’re not into her, you should make friends with her and talk about all my good traits.”

“What good traits?”

“Oi. I have good traits. I’m in Gryffindor.”

Freya pitched in: “That’s debatable.”

They laughed good-naturedly, and it was with a mutual agreement that they began to pack up their things so that they could go to dinner. Merlin opened his schoolbag, intending to stow his quill and extra bit of parchment inside, only to stop short with a small, “Oh!” of surprise.

Will and Freya looked at him questioningly.

Merlin lifted the object he’d found, quite certain they hadn’t been there at the start of the hour. “Arthur’s glasses,” he said, bewildered. He exchanged looks with Freya and Will, who both seemed equally at a loss. After a moment of awkward silence, Merlin hesitantly said, “I s’pose I should go find him…”

“He’ll likely be in the Hall for dinner,” Freya said practically.

“I dunno,” Will said. “He looked like he’d been hit pretty hard. He might be in the hospital wing.”

“Well,” Merlin said, “if he’s not at dinner I’ll just stop by there. It’s not as though he doesn’t get along well enough without them…Though if he did get hurt, he’d better be well enough for Quidditch practice tomorrow, because I’ve been looking forward to that all week.”

With that decided, Merlin tucked the spectacles into his robe pocket, safe and sound with his wand, and the trio left eagerly in search of a hot meal. When they arrived at the Hall it was to find that they were early, but that was all right because that way they had their seats of choice. Will and Merlin promised to see Freya later, then found places to sit close to the far end of the table.

Merlin’s bottom had just touched the polished wood when Gaius was waving him up. With a light-hearted sigh, he stood up again and ambled over, tripping on the topmost of the three steps that led up to the teacher’s table. He flung an arm out and caught himself on the table, knocking it hard enough that a goblet fell over.

“Aargh!” gasped a lean man, leaping from his seat and pulling his robes away from his skin. “You clumsy boy!”

“Sorry!” Merlin cried immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!”

“Oh dear,” Hunith sighed wearisomely, gathering up a bunch of napkins. “Now calm down, Aredian. There was only a bit left in the goblet; you’re hardly wet.”

Aredian, leering at Merlin, grumbled under his breath and sat down, snatching the napkins from Merlin’s mother. Merlin was blushing to the tip of his ears, a lump in his throat the only thing keeping him from continuing his profuse apologies.

“Now that’s settled,” Gaius said quite coldly, glaring at Aredian. He turned to his great-nephew, worn face warming considerably. “I heard you met the older of the Pendragon children today, m’boy.”

“Morgana? Yeah.” Merlin arched his eyebrow in a fine impression of Gaius’. “What of it?”

“She asked after you today,” Gaius smiled, “when she dropped by my office in search of Arthur’s glasses.”

Merlin perked up in interest. “What’d she say about me?”

“That you’re not all there.”

His shoulders slumped shamefully. “Could be ‘cause I said ‘wood worms’.”

“Wood worms?”

“Wood worms.”

“M’boy, I’ve told you countless times that they’re called termites.”

“I know.”

Gaius lifted his eyes lamentingly to the bewitched ceiling, as though the answers he sought regarding Merlin’s idiocy were written in the just peeking stars. Then he shook his head and gave Merlin a fond but exasperated smile. “Well, at least she thinks you’re cute, m’boy.”

The young wizard perked up again. “Does she?”

“Yes.”

“Brilliant!”

“Now, Merlin,” Hunith cut in firmly, “you must remember that Morgana is sixteen—that’s two years older than you, you know. You mustn’t try to—“

“Oh, _mum_ ,” Merlin moaned. “Age doesn’t mean anything!”

“Besides,” Hunith continued, as though her only child hadn’t said anything, “I thought you were interested in the other Pendragon.”

“ _Mum_.”

“He’s that one who keeps squinting, right?”

“Yes, that’s Arthur. He may be a bit coarse around the edges, m’boy, but I’ll support you if you really like him. Although I’m still not sure if this bisexuality of yours is a phase, you’re only fourteen.”

“ _Uncle Gaius_.”

Hunith suddenly looked anxious and leaned around Aredian to look at her uncle. “Is Arthur gay, do you think? Or bilingual—oh, bi _sexual_ , I meant, sorry dear.”

“ _MUM_.”

“I could be wrong, but—“

“ _Please_.”

“—I do believe that Arthur is gay. Unless those three boys I’ve seen him with—all on separate occasions, mind you, and none of them lasted long—were simply experiments.”

Merlin buried his face in his hands, horribly embarrassed. They hadn’t even bothered to lower their voices, and Aredian was sitting between them looking as though he were about to explode or whip out his wand and hex everything within sight.

“Oh, Merlin,” Alice said brightly as she bustled up to her seat. “Dinner’s about to start. If you’re not terribly deep in conversation, you should go and sit. I think the headmaster has a few words to say tonight.”

“Thankyouseeyoulaterbye,” Merlin gasped, eyes wide with sheer gratitude. He turned and stumbled back to his seat, hiding his head in his arms that he folded on the tabletop, ignoring Will’s prodding finger and questions.

Hungry students had begun to pour in through the doors, filling the great room with the dull echoing chatter that was so common amongst large groups of teens. By the time most of the tables had been filled, the noise had grown to a familiar roar as people had to talk gradually louder to be heard over their neighbors.

Merlin finally reared his head, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Oi, oi, Will,” he said, nudging him in the ribs with a sharp elbow.

“Ouch,” Will snapped, rubbing his side and glaring sideways at his friend. “Oi, oi, what?”

“Who’s that?”

“Who?”

Merlin jerked his head not-so-discreetly to the teacher’s table. “That man sitting by my mum.”

Will looked and blatantly stared, cocking his head back and forth as though the change in perspective would make the sour-looking face more recognizable. “Merlin’s beard, he’s ugly.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agreed. “I spilled a bit of water on him; he wasn’t very happy. I think his name is Arabian or something.”

“He doesn’t look Middle Eastern. But then again I can’t look past how ugly he is to tell his genetic makeup exactly.”

The pair stared for a moment longer. Aredian looked sharply toward their table, and they quickly busied themselves (Will traced shapes into the table with a finger and Merlin pulled out his wand and pretended to polish it, inadvertently causing it to shoot blue sparks and singe the sleeve of Will’s robes). A pair of creepy, paranoid eyes swept past them and scanned the rest of the room like the fiery Eye of Sauron searching for his Ring.

Luckily, they were spared another moment of trying to determine Aredian’s ethnicity by the arrival of Professor Pendragon, headmaster of Hogwarts. “Good evening, students.” A hush fell upon the Great Hall immediately at the authoritative tone. Uther allowed a smile to touch the corners of his lips. “I hope you all have had a pleasant day. I know we are all hungry now, but please bear with me for a moment, because there is a new face among us today. Please give a warm welcome to our new caretaker, Aredian Sabin Slayer.”

“ _Aredian_ ,” Merlin and Will said comprehensively, unheard under the sound of polite applause. They mutually agreed after whispered discussion that his ethnicity was ugly old toad.

They missed the rest of what Professor Pendragon had said, but it didn’t escape their notice that food had appeared before them. Merlin immediately began to scarf down whatever was in reach, suddenly realizing just how hungry he was.

It was when he was in the middle of wolfing down a baked chicken leg that he spotted Arthur, accompanied by Leon and Gwen, enter the Hall. He looked no worse for wear: Arthur walked on his own feet, wearing no bandages as far as Merlin could see, and he could tell by the way he squinty-glared toward the Slytherin table that his memory had been unaffected. Gwen ushered her friends toward Merlin and Will, when she saw them, and the three sat opposite of them.

“Oh,” Merlin exclaimed. “Arthur, I found your glasses. Here they are.” He hoped Arthur didn’t ask _where_ exactly he’d found them.

He fished them out of his pocket and handed them over. Arthur grudgingly took them, muttering something that Merlin didn’t catch under his breath. But he seemed to be in such a bad mood that Merlin didn’t dare ask him to repeat it more loudly.

“I hope you’re ready for your first Quidditch practice tomorrow, Merlin,” Gwen said with a smile. “Don’t forget your broom! I forgot mine, first practice. It was _so_ embarrassing.” Her cheeks flushed pink just with the memory, and Merlin couldn’t help but to grin.

“Thanks for the tip,” he said, stifling a laugh.

“Not to worry, Merlin,” Will said, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll be there to remind you!”

“What would I do without you?” Merlin asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Right, I’m going to the toilet; I haven’t been all day. Grab me some spotted dick when it turns up, Will.” Gwen and Leon were too engaged to properly acknowledge his leave, and Arthur was glowering at a spoonful of beans. Merlin figured he was still sullen about his sister (well, _half_ -sister).

“Fine,” Will answered, ladling himself another helping of beef stew. “Hurry up, though. We told Freya we’d go to the library with her, and I want to get out of there before morning.”

Merlin exchanged a greeting with Lancelot when they met at the door, and directed him toward the end of the table where their friends were sitting. Then he hurried along (because he _really_ had to pee, you know).

The nearest toilet by Merlin’s calculation was in the basement, so he rabbited down the stairs. As he turned the corner, though, he nearly ran smack into another person. “Oh!” he gasped, surprised. “Sorry, sorry. I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

The person, a student perhaps a bit older than him and only slightly less gangly, turned. “What you in a hurry for?” he demanded, looking indignant, as though Merlin really had run into him and knocked him to the floor.

“Well,” Merlin said, shifting his weight from foot to foot, “I’ve got to pee.”

The angry expression smoothed over and was replaced with a cooler one. “Oh. Here, I know a shortcut. It’s just through this door up here.”

Merlin sighed in relief, having been unsure whether he would make it. “Thanks,” he said, following the Hufflepuff student. “I’m Merlin, by the way. Merlin Emrys.”

“Cedric. Cedric Sigan.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Cedric.”

“Here we are,” he said, reaching a small broom closet door and opening it to reveal a block of pitch blackness.

Merlin peered at it dubiously. “This is the shortcut to the toilet?”

“Yes,” Cedric said patronizingly. “It leads straight through the next corridor, and you’ll be at the toilet door.”

“Oh,” Merlin said simply. He took a tentative step forward. “But why is it so dark?”

“Just keep your hand on the wall,” Cedric said impatiently. “Go on, then. I haven’t got forever.”

The young Gryffindor, not wanting to offend the older student who had (not-so-kindly) helped him, hurried forward, his right hand raising to the cold stone wall. “Thanks,” he said brightly as he passed Cedric, who gave him a friendly smile in return.

As Merlin passed the threshold, though, the door shut with a loud, startling slam, and he whipped around in surprise. Though the thick wood he could hear Cedric saying something, but then he belatedly realized that Cedric had probably cast a spell on the door. He licked his lips nervously, deciding to push ahead instead of making a big deal out of it. He was reminded horribly of that time when Valiant had locked him in the Vanishing Cabinet.

Merlin walked straight into the back wall.

“Ouch!” he spluttered, stumbling back. He pinched his nostrils closed, wishing now more than ever that he had learnt the spell Gaius had once used to fix a nosebleed.

Cedric hadn’t led him to a shortcut after all. It was just an ordinary broom closet. He made to turn the doorknob, only to realize with a start that there wasn’t one on the inside.

“Hellur?” he called nasally. He knocked on the door. “Cedric? It’s—this isn’ funny! I’mb bleeding! Hellur?”

Frowning, Merlin spit out a mouthful of coppery blood. With the hand that wasn’t trying to keep blood from pouring forth from his nostrils, Merlin pulled out his wand.

“Alo’obora,” he said.

Nothing happened. Spoken spells didn’t do what they were meant to when they weren’t enunciated correctly. Merlin doubted he’d manage to get anything to come out properly, with his nose stopped up with blood.

There was nothing for it. Merlin would just have to get help the old-fashioned way.

“Oi!” he shouted, pounding on the door with a fist. “Helb! Helb! I’mb in ‘ere!”

It seemed that no one was coming, though. He kicked and beat the door until he was sure he was all bruised up. The tiny room was still pitch black; he could see nothing. His blind investigations yielded nothing that would help him (his searching hands found several spiders, though). His nose had finally stopped bleeding, freeing him up to use both fists to try to get attention.

Still no one came.

Until someone did.

“Oh,” Merlin sighed, utterly relieved. He had been starting to get a little tearful. “Thank goodness, I thought I’d…”

“Well,” sneered Aredian, looking down at a bloodied and pale and trembling Merlin. “What have we here?” Then his nose wrinkled in disgust as the smell hit him—Merlin had _really_ needed to pee, so he’d gone in the corner hoping no one would find him like that. Aredian had obviously placed the smell of urine, partly by how ashamed Merlin looked.

“I got locked in,” Merlin said pathetically, unable to look the caretaker in the eye. “I’ll clean it up, honest.”

“Oh ho ho,” Aredian snarled, grabbing the scruff of Merlin’s robes. “You’re in _big_ trouble now, boy.”

“But I didn’t—“ Merlin tried to protest.

“Tell it to the _headmaster_ , boy.” Aredian roughly began to drag Merlin along. “I’m sure Professor Pendragon will be glad to have his nice evening interrupted for the likes of _you_.”

Merlin blanched further, his skin glowing in the torchlight. “But I didn’t—it was Cedric!”

“Silence!”

Merlin shut his mouth.

He hoped Arthur’s father was an understanding man. It seemed that he was about to find out. He wondered if underage wizards got one owl delivery, too.


	6. Chapter 6

~6~

Merlin surreptitiously rubbed at his swollen nose, trying to clean off the dried blood he could feel caked all over his face. He wouldn’t be able to make a good impression, but he could at least try to make himself more presentable for the headmaster of the bloody school upon which practically his whole life revolved. Aredian stopped short in front of a gargoyle statue in an alcove, nearly choking Merlin with his own robes.

“Stupid arrogant old tyrant,” Aredian said to the menacing stone.

Merlin thought that was rather rude; it wasn’t as though the gargoyle—He hadn’t even the time to finish that thought because the gargoyle was suddenly moving. Well, more like rotating as a winding stair pushed it upwards, stone grinding loudly. Aredian pushed him forward onto the escalator, he standing on a step just below Merlin’s.

His heart pounded ferociously in his chest the closer they got to the headmaster’s office. Merlin certainly didn’t think he deserved to be punished for being gullible. But, if experience taught him anything, it was that adults tended to listen to each other, not to children. He was sure Gaius, Alice, and his mother would be sympathetic, but they weren’t here. Merlin was on his own.

“Enter,” said a muffled voice when Aredian knocked on the door.

Giving Merlin a final sneer before adopting a calm, respectful expression, Aredian turned the knob and they entered. The malicious caretaker finally released him, and Merlin nervously stumbled forward a few steps. His blue eyes widened in amazement at the office.

Although things that represented Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw were present, the room was predominantly decorated with Gryffindor objects, probably because Uther Pendragon had been in that House when he was a student. Red velvet tapestries with the golden Gryffindor lion embroidered on covered the circular stone walls, cabinets displayed all sorts of expensive-looking trinkets, and portraits of whispering or napping previous headmasters lined the wall behind the grandiose desk at which the headmaster sat. He spotted one framed photograph of two children dressed in traditional wizarding clothing: the girl with dark pigtails wearing green robes with gold trim and the boy with blond hair that was neatly combed sporting red ones. Belatedly he recognized them as Morgana and Arthur, mostly because she (being several inches taller than him) was holding a pair of spectacles high out of reach, which he struggled (and failed miserably) to grasp.

That was as much as Merlin had time to see because Professor Pendragon looked up, steely eyes lingering on Merlin’s distasteful appearance before focusing on Aredian. “A problem, Aredian?”

“I found this one,” Aredian gestured needlessly to Merlin, “wandering about after hours, Headmaster.”

Uther turned an appraising eye to Merlin, who had opened his mouth to protest hoarsely and still a bit nasally (due to his nose being stopped up, you see), “I wasn’t wandering, sir, honest!”

“Then you admit to a _purpose_ in being out after hours!” Aredian crowed triumphantly. “It’s a good job I caught him, Headmaster. You know how boys of his… _situation_ tend to be.”

Merlin flushed hotly. “And w’at does that bean, _sir_?” Because to be honest, Merlin wasn’t sure whether it was a jibe at his sexuality, his family’s economic status, or his being a bastard. Or perhaps even all at once.

“Such insolence!” Aredian spat.

The young Gryffindor opened his mouth to holler back, but didn’t get a chance.

“Enough.”

They silenced themselves immediately. Uther hadn’t raised his voice, but it was so authoritative that they knew his commands were to be followed without question.

“Thank you, Aredian,” he said. “I will take care of it. You may return to your duties.”

For a moment it looked as though Aredian were going to argue, but then he turned swiftly on his heel and marched out. Merlin was alone with the headmaster of the school. At least if he were expelled, it wouldn’t be in front of Aredian (a silver lining to top all silver linings).

Silence blanketed the room heavily, and Merlin found the toes of his scuffed-up shoes very interesting as Professor Pendragon studied him up and down, no doubt taking in the drab quality of his too-short robes. Oh, and the blood all over him.

“Are you all right?”

Merlin glanced up in surprise at the genuine concern. “Uh—I—yes? Sir.”

The headmaster picked up his wand anyway and pointed it at Merlin. “ _Episkey_.” Merlin instantly felt better, able to breathe more easily, but before he could thank the professor he’d replaced the wand on the desk and continued, “Now, tell me what happened, Mr. Emrys.”

He supposed that he shouldn’t have been surprised that the headmaster knew who he was. After all, three of his relatives worked at the school (and those three were _all_ of his relatives, so that was sure to mean something). Merlin took a deep breath: “IwasgoingtothetoiletinthebasementafterdinnerbutthenCedricSiganshowedmeashortcutthatwasn’tashortcutandlockedmeinthebroomclosetandIcouldn’tgetoutandIkeptcallingforhelpbutnobodycameandwhenAredianfoundmehebroughtmeherewhichisn’tfairatallbecauseIdidn’tdoanything—“

“Mr. Emrys,” Uther said calmly, raising an eyebrow. “Please start again. But slowly, this time, if you please.”

Merlin took a calming breath. “I was going to the toilet in the basement. On my way I nearly ran right into a Hufflepuff, Cedric Sigan. He showed me a shortcut to the toilet, but it turned out to be a regular old broom closet, and he locked me in. I tried to spell the door open and call for help, but no one came—well, except for Aredian, but then he brought me here, which is totally unfair, sir, because I didn’t…” He trailed off, loath to insult the man Professor Pendragon himself had just hired.

“Let me see your hands,” Professor Pendragon said, when it became apparent that Merlin was too embarrassed to continue.

Startled, Merlin thrust out his hands palm up. The man silently took them and flipped them over to reveal the red bruises along the sides of his hands and wrists where he’d pounded on the door. Evidence of his plight, Merlin realized.

It seemed that Uther Pendragon wasn’t so bad, after all.

Merlin stepped back a half-step as the professor released him.

“Cedric Sigan, you said? From Hufflepuff.”

“Um—uh—yessir,” Merlin stuttered. He nearly leapt out of his skin when something brushed between his legs (in fact, he did jump, with a rather girlish shout, but in his defense, his nerves were really quite frayed, you know). He looked down, heart thumping wildly, only to be met with the cool golden glare of the fattest cat Merlin had ever seen.

“Oh, Kilgharrah,” Uther said calmly. “I’ve wondered where you’d been off to.”

The cat, Kilgharrah, hissed threateningly at the headmaster, dragged its sharp claws through the nice carpet so that lots of threads popped loose, then sauntered imperiously toward the plush red chair by the fireplace and jumped into it. He was quite agile despite his huge girth, and the young Gryffindor fancied that he had invisible dragon wings to help him along. Merlin was sure he recognized that flicking tail.

“Nearly fifteen years of companionship, and he’s hated me for every second of it,” Uther sighed to himself. Then he cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed. “Very well, Mr. Emrys. I’ll take care of this, no need to worry. You may go.”

“Th—thank you,” Merlin said, barely aborting the mortifying motion of a clumsy bow. He hurried back to the exit and clomped down the spiral stairway, one hand running along the rough stone to keep his balance.

When he burst back into the corridor, he gulped the cool, still air gratefully, bent double with his hands on his trembling knees. That had been nearly disastrous. He’d no idea how long he’d been missing, but he did know that he was going straight back to Gryffindor Tower, where he belonged, before something else terrible happened. Like Aredian returning.

Merlin looked in both directions, unsure of where exactly he was or how to proceed. He turned to the gargoyle behind him, loath to go back up to the headmaster’s office and ask after he’d been clearly dismissed. So he did the next best thing:

“Excuse me,” he said tentatively to one of the portraits hanging on either side.

The snoring monk woke slowly, eyes opening independently of one another. “Wha?” he mumbled, blinking sluggishly. “Who? Huh?”

“Um,” Merlin stammered, feeling badly for having woken the painting, “sorry, but do you know which way is to Gryffindor Tower?”

“Hmm,” the monk hummed, beady eyes finally focusing on the boy. “Yes, yes, hmm. You’ll want to take this way,” he pointed to the right, “and then the third left. That’ll take you towards the Great Hall, young lady.”

“Oh, thank you,” Merlin cried in relief. He started off, but then paused and turned back. “And I’m a boy!” But the monk had already fallen back to sleep, snores filling the silence. He sighed wearisomely and trudged off.

Merlin counted the left turns until he came to three, and took it. Sure enough, he arrived before the entrance to the Great Hall, which was closed off. Newly heartened, Merlin moved a bit faster, and took the stairs two at a time. He couldn’t get back to the Tower quickly enough.

It was testament to how late it was that when he arrived, it was to find the Fat Lady sleeping. He cleared his throat loudly to wake her, not feeling quite so guilty as he had to wake the monk. She forced one eye open and glared at him.

“Have you any idea what—“

“Babbity Rabbity,” Merlin said impatiently.

“How rude,” the Fat Lady mumbled, swinging forward. “No manners, children today. Why, back when I was first painted, parents disciplined their—“

The rest of her complaints were cut off as Merlin climbed into the common room and the door swung shut behind him. It was deserted, the crackling fire casting orange light and dark shadows across the room. The clock above the mantelpiece told him it was well after midnight. A quick calculation told Merlin that he’d been gone for nearly six hours.

Hadn’t anyone gone looking for him?

Merlin had half expected Will to be up waiting for him, or to have fallen asleep in one of the plush red chairs. He sighed softly, wilting a bit in disappointment.

Heavy footsteps descended the right stair, the one that led to the girls’ dormitories. Merlin glanced up, and started in surprise to see that it was Mithian, her curls braided loosely and bare feet padding across the carpet. She was dressed in a nightshirt and a soft yellow robe, one hand knuckling her eye tiredly.

She stopped short upon seeing Merlin, sleepiness ebbing away with surprise. “Merlin!” she cried, hurrying down the last few steps. “Goodness, where have you been?”

“I—“ he started.

“I was only in the toilet for a moment, and I come back and here you are! Have you any idea how worried we’ve been? We were going to ask your mother if she’d seen you, but Will said that we shouldn’t worry her unless you were gone for too long because he thought you might have been shut in the Vanishing Cabinet again, but we couldn’t find you!”

“Um—“

“I came back here to wait in case you turned up; the others are still out searching the castle for you, you know! Of course, we haven’t involved any of the teachers, because we worried that you might have gotten into some sort of trouble, and we didn’t want you to get kicked off the team, or worse: _expelled_. Luckily, Gwaine knows all the secret passageways of the castle, and he’s got some sort of map he’s been working on that shows where everyone in the castle is, only he hasn’t got it quite right because it was naming people based on their defining features, and we couldn’t decide if you were ‘Saucer Ears’ or ‘Weedy MacWeedington’ or ‘Clumsy Troll’ or ‘Cornish Pixie Wannabe’ or—“

“Mithian—“

“Oh! I should let them know that I’ve found you!”

She pulled her wand out of her robe pocket, as well as a blank piece of parchment. Mithian tapped the paper with the tip of her wand, and black, spidery wisps of ink traced themselves across it. Even upside-down as it was, Merlin was able to read, _I’ve found him! Come back to G. Tower._

Merlin decided against informing her that she hadn’t really found him at all; he’d come back on his own. Instead he asked, “Is everyone out searching for me?”

“Well, of course,” she said matter-of-factly. “Will went to the toilet to find you, but you weren’t there. At first we thought you’d gotten lost, so we waited a bit, but you didn’t turn up for ages. Will and Arthur wanted to go out and search for you, but it was getting late. It was Gwaine’s idea to take the secret passages and look for you after hours if you still hadn’t turned up. Lancelot and Gwen wanted to go to the professors, but we convinced them not to.”

The younger Gryffindor resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was quite certain that if they _had_ informed someone that he was missing, especially his mother or great-uncle, then he would have been found _ages_ ago, and would have been spared the humiliation of being dragged in front of the headmaster by Aredian.

“So what happened?” Mithian asked. “Where were you?”

Merlin opened his mouth to respond, trying to gather his wits about him despite the warm fuzzy feeling that had bubbled up within him at the thought of his friends sneaking out to search for him. But a muffled, discordant chorus of “ _Babbity Rabbity_!” distracted them both, and they turned to see a group of students nearly fall over one another trying to get inside.

“Hurry, he’s after us!” gasped Will, elbowing Arthur in the side of the head in his haste to get through.

“ _Ouch_ , you cretin!”

“Just go!” snapped Gwen, shoving Elyan forward into Leon’s back, which sent the latter sprawling face-first onto the carpet. Everyone stepped over him, with Gwaine following up the herd and pulling the (indignantly squawking) door shut. He hoisted a dazed Leon to his feet and brushed him off, grinning ecstatically.

“What a laugh! I think we lost that mean old witchfinder back at the armor with the cracked helmet.” Gwaine cheered. “Merlin, mate! Where’ve ya been?”

“ _Mer_ lin.”—“Merlin’s _beard_ , Merlin!”—“Are you all right?”—“Is that _blood_?”—“Where’s Lancelot? Oh, we lost him!”—“Merlin!”

Merlin held up his hands in a placating motion, silencing them all. “I’m fine, I’m fine, honest. I was just in a spot of trouble earlier, is all.”

“We _know_ you were in trouble, you dolt,” Will rolled his eyes. “That’s why we went looking for you!”

“Where _were_ you, Merlin?” Leon asked, rubbing his shoulder.

“A broom closet in the basement,” Merlin answered. “Cedric from Hufflepuff locked me in. He should have been in Slytherin, if you ask me—that was really mean of him. Not to say that Slytherins are all mean, it’s just that…Well.”

At that, Arthur lifted his chin imperiously, an angry glint in his eyes, and grasped Merlin by the arm. “We’re going to the headmaster now.”

“No,” Merlin said, trying and failing to resist being dragged back out of the hole. “No, wait!”

“ _Mer_ lin, if you’re being bullied, it’s important that my father know about it!”

“He already knows!”

“He’s not all-seeing, _Mer_ lin.”

“I know that!” Merlin retorted, digging his heels into the stone floor to hinder Arthur’s progress. Arthur just pulled harder as he would on the reigns of a stubborn horse, and they inched steadily closer to the stairs.

Will suddenly appeared behind him and pushed. “C’mon, Merlin! For once the pratdragon is right!”

(“Pratdragon?!” Arthur spluttered indignantly.)

“But if you would just listen—!” Merlin’s groan was cut off as Will shoved him to get him moving, but it only sent him sprawling forward into Arthur, who in turn overbalanced and crashed hard to the floor, one of Merlin’s axe-like elbows deep in his gut.

“Oops,” Will said, sounding more amused than contrite.

“Sorry, sorry!” Merlin gasped, scrambling off of Arthur. “But anyway, I already told Professor Pendragon!”

Arthur propped himself up on his elbow, glaring at Merlin. His glasses were askew, his blue eyes narrowed suspiciously, one arm clutched around his midsection. “Why didn’t you _say_ so, _Mer_ lin?”

“All right, all right,” Gwen said, appearing through the hole. (The Fat Lady was muttering irritably at all the drama, as it was intruding upon her beauty sleep.) “If Merlin says he’s told the headmaster, then I’m sure he has. Now, Merlin, you go and get cleaned up and go to bed. The rest of you should, too, because it’s one in the morning and we’ve got Quidditch practice at three in the afternoon.

“I’m going to look for Lancelot.”

Arthur had nodded, conceding to her good sense throughout her speech, but at the last line jolted and sat up fully. “What’s happened to Lancelot? He was right behind us.”

She nodded worriedly, wringing her flexible wand in her hands. “I think perhaps he stayed behind to hold Aredian off.”

“That bloody nobleman,” Arthur said fondly but with exasperation. He got to his feet and brushed off his robes, and straightened his shiny Prefect badge over the Gryffindor crest. “Right then, I’ll go pay my father a visit, try to do some damage control. You all stay here and try to get some sleep.”

Will regarded Arthur with something akin to respect, then saluted and hauled Merlin to his feet. “You’re not so bad, Pendragon,” he said over his shoulder as he manhandled Merlin back inside.

Merlin looked back to see how Arthur reacted to the praise, only to find that Arthur was staring intensely at him, and not at Will. When they made eye contact only for a moment, Merlin was sure that Arthur averted his gaze and flushed before spinning on his heel and marching off. For some odd reason, Merlin found himself blushing, too.

Gwen climbed back in after them, and announced to the rest of the team, who had remained standing in the room looking like a mismatched, sleepy regiment awaiting orders, that Arthur was going to take care of everything and that they should all go to bed. Everyone readily agreed. After all, it was very late, and they were all very tired. (All except for Gwaine, who tried to coerce Mithian into going on a midnight stroll with him to Hogsmeade, but to no avail.)

But when Merlin had washed up with the water basin, careful to be keep quiet so as not to wake the rest of the boys already asleep, and had gotten into his sleeping clothes and laid down, he found that he couldn’t drift off. He tossed and turned, punched his pillows, counted three-hundred and sixty-eight griffins, got up and polished his broomstick, and still couldn’t find peace in sleep.

And it was all Arthur’s fault, because the reason Merlin couldn’t sleep was because he kept thinking about him.


	7. Chapter 7

~7~

“Foul!” Arthur yelled. “Guinevere, that’s a foul! You can’t just go Blatching people, especially the ones on our team!”

Gwen rubbed her arm, which was sure to be heavily bruised. “Sorry!” she called back, the apology intended both for Arthur and for Leon, whom she had rammed into midair.

Merlin, hovering high above the team as he kept an eye out for the Snitch, wondered whether it could still be considered Blatching if one didn’t mean to collide with another person. It was a bit of an interesting dilemma; how would the referee be able to tell accident from intent? On that note, Merlin wondered who would be refereeing the upcoming match between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

“Elyan, Leon!” Arthur shouted from his position in front of the goal posts, “try practicing the Bludger Backbeat! That’ll throw them off, for sure.”

As Elyan whizzed by on his broom, Merlin was sure he heard an irritated snatch of, “…throw _me_ off, more like as…” Merlin grinned despite himself. Hitting a Bludger behind you to the other Beater was a difficult move—it required exact precision, which was made even more difficult considering neither Elyan nor Leon had eyes in the backs of their heads.

He resumed his search for the Snitch. Arthur had tasked him with trying to keep it in his sight without giving away its presence. Merlin was supposed to wait to catch it until they’d scored one hundred points. They’d been at it for a quarter of an hour by then, and no points had been made because Arthur was taking his job as Keeper very seriously. Lancelot had a knot from when he had tried to score a few minutes ago, but Arthur had knocked it back so viciously that it had rebounded off the boy’s forehead and flew out of bounds.

Merlin drifted lazily, sagging on his broom.

Quidditch was fun, sure, but not when he wasn’t able to do anything but hang around.

He was half-considering taking out his wand and practicing his Charms homework when he saw a figure watching them from the stands, crouched low so as not to be easily noticed. The boy was familiar to Merlin—not a fourth year, he was too young, but certainly not a first year, either. And then Merlin saw the green and silver necktie, and recognized him as that Slytherin boy who had been staring at him some days ago.

As though sensing Merlin’s gaze, the boy sharply looked up. And smiled eerily.

 _Emrys_.

“Who _are_ you?” Merlin murmured, frowning in confusion.

But all confusion was momentarily forgotten the instant Merlin felt something dangerous coming—his skin prickled and jumped like he was standing out in a storm. Instinctively, he rolled to one side, limbs wrapped round the handle of his broom.

“Nice dodge!” Leon praised as he whipped past, chasing the Bludger that had nearly taken Merlin out.

Merlin righted himself several feet away, shaking off the last vestiges of primal fear of injury. He glanced back down toward the audience stands, but the Slytherin boy was gone. After a moment’s debate, Merlin shot off toward the Captain and pulled up behind him.

“I think Morgana’s got a spy,” he said lowly.

“What?” Arthur turned, looking alarmed. “Where? Who is it?” His head swiveled around, eyes searching the stands as well as the ground.

Mithian scored in the right goal, but Arthur didn’t even notice.

“Some Slytherin boy,” Merlin shrugged. “I didn’t recognize him. But when he saw that I knew he was there, he disappeared pretty quickly.”

Arthur let loose a string of vulgarity that Merlin’s mother would have fainted to hear. “How long was he here?”

“Dunno.”

“Is there anything you _do_ know, _Mer_ lin?” Arthur growled. Merlin opened his mouth to respond, but Arthur cut him off with a jerk of his head: “Why don’t you go back to being _useless_ up there?”

Flushing hot with anger, Merlin shot straight upwards—the most direct path _away_ from the right _prat_ of a captain. Well, that’s the last time _Mer_ lin tried to tell Arthur anything important!

“Useless, am I?” he muttered, eyeballs burning with furious tears that he refused to let fall. “ _You’re_ useless.”

Even when Arthur suddenly called the practice to a halt ten minutes later, Merlin remained on his broom far enough away to not be a part of the huddle, but close enough to hear what was being said.

“Good work today, team,” Arthur said. “We’ve a lot of work to do, but it’s a great start.”

“Why are we stopping?” Mithian asked. “You didn’t call us down to compliment us, I’m sure.”

“No,” the captain mused. “It seems Morgana’s trying to one-up us with a spy.”

“A spy?” Leon raised his eyebrow.

“A Slytherin boy, watching us practice,” Arthur said. Everyone looked around as though expecting to see him, but Arthur continued unhindered: “It’s a good thing our team idiot spotted him earlier, or he might have seen us practicing our real moves.”

“Our real moves?” This time is was Guinevere who spoke, looking both bemused and exasperated. “What have we been doing this past hour, then?”

“Warm-ups,” Arthur answered, quite seriously.

Merlin rolled his eyes. That was what the stretching had been before they went up to the pitch. Flying twice round the perimeter of the field was a warm-up, too. There was no doubt that Arthur had meant what they had been doing to be their real practice, but now he wanted to play it off as though it hadn’t been anything serious. He would probably stay up all night thinking of new tactics and plays and ways to make Merlin feel bad, the prat.

He hoped Arthur lost his glasses again.

The youngest team player lost interest in Arthur’s excuses, and so let his eyes roam the pitch. That was when he spotted it: a golden glint that could only have been the Snitch.

Merlin didn’t dare take his eyes away from it, and only hesitated a second or two before shooting off towards it. He could blow off some steam with a good chase, and it wasn’t as though Arthur would really miss him, and he wasn’t really saying anything important.

And besides, Merlin didn’t speak Pratdragon.

He whirled around the goal posts, performing a Double Eight Loop—a typical Keeper defense against penalty shooters—his hand outstretched for the Snitch. His fingertips had just brushed the walnut-sized ball when it darted to one side. Merlin followed, turning his handle sharply to avoid collision with one of the spectator stands. His Comet shuddered in protest beneath him, but he spurred it into a smooth, upward arc, sight locked on the flitting golden orb. The wind cooled his skin, erased any anger he had felt just a few minutes before regarding Arthur. He ecstatically reached for his prize.

Abruptly the Snitch changed direction again, disappearing for a moment before Merlin turned and regained his bearings. The Snitch hovered tantalizingly in front of the center hoop, practically daring Merlin to come fetch it.

Merlin did.

He tucked in and shot through the goal like a hawk dive-bombing its prey, following the Snitch on its helter-skelter course about the pitch. After an exerting chase back and forth across the pitch in which Merlin performed several series of complicated moves, he at last caught up. Merlin stretched as far as his limb would go, straining his slender fingertips toward his quarry.

“Ah!” he cried victoriously.

The Snitch’s wings fluttered frantically between his fingers, but he held fast, slowing his broom to a halt midair. He grinned down at his fist, cheeks flushed red from the coarse wind and hair sticking up in odd places like the feathers of a ruffled raven. Merlin glanced back to the gauge the reactions of his teammates.

The Chasers, Gwen, Mithian, and Lancelot were cheering him, waving their broomsticks in the air as a gesture of fanaticism and support. Elyan was grinning as he watched him, arms folded across his broad chest. Leon was watching by the captain’s side, and though Merlin couldn’t see him quite clearly his body language conveyed approval. Arthur, however, was frowning at Merlin.

The pride and thrill Merlin had been feeling ebbed slightly. Perhaps Arthur was angry that he’d flown off mid-speech, undermining his authority. Merlin no longer felt the sting of Arthur’s words from before; he realized that he had just been panicking and hadn’t thought of what he was saying. The Pendragon probably didn’t even remember it.

And then Arthur wasn’t looking at him anymore, but across the pitch. Merlin followed his gaze and saw Freya, standing just out of bounds with her arms full of books, and a covered wicker basket hanging from the crook of her elbow. She beamed up at Merlin, not noticing that Arthur was marching toward her with long strides, his Firebolt white-knuckled in his hand.

Merlin wasn’t so far away that he couldn’t hear Arthur’s angry demand: “What are you doing here, Ravenclaw? This is _Gryffindor_ practice.”

Freya looked startled, and adjusted her books in her arms. “Oh, uh, Merlin said that practice would be over by now, so I thought that I’d—“

“What, come _spy_ on us? How much is Morgana paying you?”

Merlin knew right then that Arthur had gone too far, because Freya’s lips thinned angrily, her eyes flashing. “ _Excuse me_?”

“I should’ve known that Morgana would make a deal with someone like you. How many galleons did you accept?” Arthur sneered. “Two? Three?”

By then, the rest of the Quidditch team had arrived, looking wary. Merlin descended quickly, stumbling off of his broom and going to Freya’s side. Then it was him, Freya, and Lancelot staring down Arthur and Leon. Mithian, Gwen, and Elyan stood uncertainly to the side, unsure whether to interfere or not.

Freya was trembling with fury, her hands turning white from her death grip on the books.

“She’s not a spy!” Merlin came to her defense. “She’s my friend!”

“Are you sure?” Arthur retorted, face beginning to darken threateningly. “Last time I checked, friends could betray one another! And for that matter, how do I know that _you_ ’ _re_ not one of Morgana’s spies? You’re even more poor than the du Lacs! Morgana has a big enough allowance to employ half the school!”

Merlin inhaled sharply. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Lancelot, face pinched, stepped between them, holding up his hands in a placating motion. “Listen, maybe we should all go our separate ways for a bit, cool down.”

“Yes,” Leon said, looking concernedly at Arthur. “Perhaps we should…”

“I’m not an idiot! I’ve had enough so-called _friends_ rat me out! You’re off the team,” Arthur spat at Merlin, shoving Leon off of him. “You’re a rubbish Seeker, Emrys, and a rubbish student, and a rubbish _peasant_.”

Merlin reeled back a step or two, looking utterly shocked. The others looked just as horrified at Arthur’s obvious lapse in sanity.

For a moment it seemed as though time had frozen.

Then Freya’s books thudded to the grass, the basket dropping and spilling its contents (fresh strawberries, Merlin vaguely noticed). She drew her wand, face contorted in fury for the insult to her own family name and to her friend, and pointed it at Arthur.

But Arthur was just as sharp, and snatched his own wand up from his pocket and pointed before the first syllable of the Bat-Bogey Hex had left Freya’s lips. “ _Sectumsempra_!”

Freya fell back with a strangled cry, her wand falling amongst her forgotten things. Gwen and Mithian both cried out, voices ringing across the pitch, and Elyan ripped out his own wand in an instant. Merlin could only stare in utter terror as blood welled from the huge slash in Freya’s chest, staining the white shirt she wore beneath her robes a stark crimson. She gasped and wheezed frighteningly, staring wide-eyed up at the sky as Lancelot fell to his knees at her side and desperately pressed his shaking hands over her wound.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” Elyan said huskily. Arthur only had a split second to realize what he had done and to express horror at himself before he was struck by the spell and knocked unconscious where he stood.

“Get help!” Lancelot said. “Someone get help!”

Freya’s strawberries were crushed underfoot as Leon pelted off toward the castle, his own Firebolt abandoned next to Arthur’s.

“Ohh,” Gwen moaned, kneeling on Freya’s other side. She put her hands on either side of Lancelot’s, trying to keep Freya’s lifeblood inside of her, where it belonged.

The gash was long and deep, as though Arthur had wielded a sword rather than a wooden twig. Freya’s breath was shortening and her eyes drooping even as Lancelot tearfully begged her to stay awake. Her pale fingers grasped weakly at the cool grass beneath her.

Merlin, in shock, was shaking from head to toe, hands clutching at his jetty locks and tears streaming. “Freya,” he choked out, feet frozen in place. “Freya, Freya, Freya…”

He hardly registered Mithian’s presence, her arms wrapping tightly around him to help himself hold together. Elyan was standing helplessly to one side, his wand held loosely at his side. Arthur was still sprawled unconscious, ignored where he lay.

Hearing running steps, Merlin somehow managed to tear his eyes away from the terrible sight, and saw that Leon was returning with a professor in tow. Obviously he hadn’t had to run all the way to the castle, just to the greenhouses, where his mother had been teaching Advanced Herbology.

“Mum!” Merlin sobbed pitifully.

Whether she didn’t hear him or simply ignored him was unclear, because Professor Emrys fell to her knees at Freya’s side, ushering Gwen and Lancelot out of her way. She examined her wound quickly, fumbling for her wand. Hunith sang a healing incantation—Merlin didn’t know how she knew what to do, but he was so grateful that she did, because he was sure that otherwise Freya would have died.

Before his eyes, the blood staining her began to flow back into her body; Freya’s skin became less porcelain; her wound began to stitch itself together; but her eyes remained shut. The ugly wound closed without a scar. Lancelot and Gwen sat back, shoulder-to-shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief. Their bloodied hands lay in their laps.

Hunith sat back, wiping a hand across her forehead. A few wisps of dark hair had come loose from her headscarf, but she hardly seemed to notice. Then she glanced up, her face stoic and serious, so unlike the kindly face with which Merlin had grown up.

“All of you,” she said, “with me.”

She used the Mobilicorpus charm to levitate both Freya and Arthur, who were still unconscious, and began to walk briskly back up to the castle. The other students stumbled after her, Gwen and Lancelot supporting one another, and Mithian supporting Merlin. Their brooms were left forgotten on the field, as were Freya’s books and basket.

Merlin was unable to comprehend what had happened. Well, he _knew_ what had happened: Arthur had insulted him and Freya, Freya had tried to hex him, but Arthur had used one of the most dangerous spells, invented to kill. But what he didn’t understand was _why_ Arthur had done that. Arthur didn’t seem the sort to stoop so low, even if he was furious and overreacting.

It was all too confusing, so Merlin shut his thoughts down.

The solemn group trekked silently back to the castle, and up the stairs to the infirmary, where Hunith laid Freya and Arthur in bed at opposite sides of the room. Alice immediately set to work on Freya, since she was obviously in the worse condition.

Professor Emrys bustled the rest of them over to the door so as to give the patient and healer some privacy, face tight. If Merlin didn’t know any better, he’d have thought she was holding back an enraged scream, but he knew she was trying desperately not to cry. Freya was like a daughter to her, after all.

She wrung her hands together nervously, and picked at the dirt beneath her nails. “The headmaster should be arriving shortly,” she said in the hushed tones of a visitor in a hospital. “I sent Mr. Greene to fetch him here, when Mr. Lionel came and…Well, he’ll be wanting to speak with each of you in turn, I expect.”

Merlin was ridiculously surprised that Mr. Greene, that is, Gwaine, was in his mother’s Advanced Herbology class. That he was bothering to think about that rather than what he was going to say to the headmaster felt quite absurd; he nearly laughed, but the severe atmosphere was enough to keep it at bay.

It was important that Merlin organize his thoughts for Professor Pendragon’s inquiries. There was something that he needed to say about Arthur’s behavior—that it hadn’t really _been_ Arthur, because there was a small part of him that rejected any theory that included Arthur being able to kill someone just because he was angry. But he was at a loss to give any explanation for what had happened other than what he had seen. Arthur had been angry, and he had attempted murder.

But stuck in Merlin’s brain was that split second after he had used the terrible spell, and that same split second before Elyan had stupefied him. It was of a look of abject horror, confusion intermingled in it. It was the expression of someone thinking, ‘This can’t have just happened.’

The doors opened and King—no, _Professor_ —Pendragon strode into the infirmary. His eyes landed first on the bed where his son lay, then moved to the one where Alice was bustling around Freya, and then to the out-of-the-way corner where Hunith and the gaggle of Quidditch-uniformed students stood.

“What happened?” he asked, the question directed at Professor Emrys.

She shook her head. “All I know is that Arthur used the _sectumsempra_ curse on Freya du Lac. I did my best to heal her, but I don’t know what good it did—healing has never been my strength.”

Uther nodded curtly. “Mr. Lionel, with me.”

Leon swallowed convulsively, looking a little green, but followed the headmaster out of the room. Merlin could hear the low murmur as they conversed on the other side. He leaned against the cool stone wall behind him, repeatedly scuffing the toe of his shoe on the floor. Every once in a while he glanced toward Freya, then to the closed doors, then to Arthur.

After a moment, Uther reentered, alone, and asked Elyan (“Mr. Smithson, with me.”) to go out. They went, and the muffled tones resumed. The process repeated—“Mr. du Lac, with me.”—“Ms. Smithson, with me.”—“Ms. Montgomery, with me.”—until finally, “Mr. Emrys, with me.”

Merlin glanced at his mother under his lashes as he passed, and she gave a small, encouraging smile—much like the one she’d given him when he was eleven was about to be sorted into a House. He followed Professor Pendragon out of the room into the privacy of the hall. He didn’t know where the rest of the team had gone, but he was sure he would find out once the interview (or interrogation, depending on the headmaster’s mood) was over.

“Are you all right?”

It was the same question he’d been asked only the night before, when Aredian had brought him to his office.

Merlin nodded, staring down at the headmaster’s very, very, _very_ polished shoes.

“What happened? And please speak clearly.”

The young Gryffindor took a shaky breath, then looked sharply (and quite bravely, he might add) up into Professor Pendragon’s eyes. “I can tell you what I saw,” he said, voice steady, “but I think that what I saw isn’t all there is to it.”

Uther raised his eyebrows, but nodded for the fourth-year to continue.

“He was fine during practice,” Merlin said, “Arthur, I mean. But then I noticed a Slytherin boy watching us, and I thought he was a spy for their team, so I told Arthur. That was when he started acting, well, _mean_. Meaner than usual, I mean. Well, he’s not mean like he’s a bad person, it’s just sometimes he can be an obnoxious prat—not that he’s like that all the time, and that’s probably an exaggeration, sir, I don’t mean to say Arthur’s—“

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Emrys, I understand. Please get on.”

“Right, well,” Merlin shook off his embarrassment and continued more confidently, “the boy who was watching us disappeared before Arthur noticed him. And then Arthur called the team down and ended the practice, and I, well, sort of ignored him and chased after the Snitch. When I caught it, Arthur was the only one who didn’t seem happy about it, but I figured it was because he was just in a bad mood anyway.

“Then Freya came down to the pitch so she could walk me back to the castle. She’s my friend, but she’s also in Ravenclaw so we don’t get to spend much time together, so we always try to do so when we can. Arthur thought she was a spy for Morgana, and said all these horrible things, and they both started getting angry, and—“

“What sort of horrible things?” Uther interrupted.

“Um, well, he sort of said that people of our status—poor, I mean—would accept a galleon or two for betraying our friends,” Merlin said. “But Arthur’s not the kind of person who would say those things, I think.”

“Hmm,” Uther said. “Go on, please, Mr. Emrys.”

“So, uh, Freya got mad and tried to hex him—the Bat-Bogey Hex—but Arthur drew his wand and used the _sectumsempra_ curse. But Arthur didn’t mean to use it!” he ended fervently.

“How do you know?” the headmaster sounded genuinely curious.

“The look on his face the second after he realized what he’d done,” Merlin said, lowering his eyes again. “It was like…it was obvious…No one who means to use a spell like that would have that expression…Not if he knew what the spell was, at least.”

Uther nodded slowly. “Is that all, Mr. Emrys?”

“Yes sir.”

“Very well. Thank you, Mr. Emrys. The rest of your teammates are in the side room in the Great Hall. Go and join them, and eat some chocolate. It’ll calm your nerves.” With that, Professor Pendragon gave Merlin’s shoulder a small squeeze and then bypassed him back into the infirmary. He didn’t bother to close the doors behind him, so Merlin had a very clear view as he went to his son’s beside, took out his wand, and said, “ _Ennervate_.”

Arthur woke blearily.

Merlin turned and went to the Great Hall, wondering how he was going to break the news to Will later.


	8. Chapter 8

~8~

            Rumors spread like wildfire, and were only fueled by the absence of both Freya and Arthur the next day, as they were kept isolated in the infirmary. Their only visitors were close friends and family—in Arthur’s case, Morgana often stopped by his bedside, hiding behind the curtain that afforded the patient privacy. Merlin didn’t know what they talked about, if at all—he’d been spending all of his free time with Freya and Will at her bed on the other side of the room.

            Not that Merlin hadn’t tried to see him; Arthur was the one who threw stuff at him whenever he came near and shouted at him to go away. He’d nearly gotten his head taken off by an empty cup.

            Anyway, Merlin and Will were regaling Freya, who was lying propped up on a mountain of pillows, with a particularly ridiculous rumor they’d heard in Charms that morning (it involved a Polyjuice Potion, a slobbery kiss, the sword of Gryffindor, and a strawberry-filled chocolate frog). No one seemed to know what had really happened, and no one who had seen it was telling.

            “Fine by me,” Freya said, unconcerned. She flipped a few pages in her Charms book, which had been brought back from the Quidditch pitch by some professor or another (all of their brooms and things were returned to them by the time the exhausted players had gotten back to Gryffindor Tower the night before). “Honestly, if everyone knew what really happened I don’t think Arthur would be able to live it down.”

            Will harrumphed, arms crossed over his chest. When he’d been informed of Freya’s hospitalization, he’d run to check on his friend, screamed at and attempted to curse a distraught-looking Arthur, was subdued by Alice, who used a Cheering Charm on him (it certainly didn’t cheer him up, but it at least calmed him a bit), and then had remained faithfully at Freya’s side for the entirety of the night, until Alice had shooed him away at two in the morning to get some sleep.

            “You know it wasn’t his fault, Will,” Freya said sternly.

            Merlin plucked absently at a loose string on the cuff of his robe sleeve. Uther, Alice, and Hunith had all used a series of complicated spells on Arthur to determine whether his behavior had been of his own volition; Arthur had insisted that it hadn’t been, that the last he remembered was Keepering for practice, and then he was standing with his wand pointed and Freya was dying, and then he was being enervated by his father.

            As it turned out, Arthur had been placed under _angario_. Merlin had never heard of it, but it had been explained, by the headmaster himself, as being a very outdated spell similar to the Imperio Curse. Only _angario_ was more like being possessed, rather than controlled, so it usually left the victim with no memory.

            “Who would want to _engorgio_ the Pratdragon, anyway?” Will asked loudly, possibly hoping that his voice would carry to Arthur, for whom he’d lost all respect (not that he had much for him to begin with).

            “It’s _angario_ ,” Freya said, raising her own voice. “And the adults are looking into it.”

            “That Slytherin boy,” Merlin said.

            Freya rolled her eyes. They’d had this conversation several times already, but Merlin was utterly convinced. “That Slytherin boy is a third year,” she said, “and don’t you think Professor Pendragon would have already figured out whether or not he’d done it? Would Mordred really risk his place on the Quidditch team to try to get Arthur sent to Azkaban?”

            “How should I know?” Merlin retorted. “I don’t pretend to know how the creep thinks.”

            After a short investigation, it had been discovered that Mordred Disir, the Slytherin Seeker, was the so-called spy. He admitted to having watched part of the practice, trying to discreetly learn Snitch-catching tactics from Merlin. But the Gryffindor didn’t believe it. There was just something off about the kid.

            “Yeah,” Will agreed, volume growing louder, if anything. “Because we all know that Slytherins are drooling, arse-kissing prats who’ll do anything to get ahead, and then lie through their teeth and kiss _more_ arse to get out of trouble when they’re caught.”

            A sharp movement across the room drew Merlin’s attention, and he paled considerably when he comprehended the sight. Morgana Pendragon, in all her haughty, cold majesty, was striding over to them. It was obvious that she’d heard every word that had come out of Will’s mouth.

            “What?” Will frowned, catching Merlin’s expression.

            He turned, and instantly shrank back into his chair, as though Morgana were a terrible dragon with flames flickering at her nostrils.

            “Oh, hey,” he greeted weakly. “I didn’t—well, what are you…How are you, my lady?”

            “Listen,” she said, apparently in no mood to play games, “my little brother is trying to sleep. You know, he’s been having nightmares, and so he’s gotten less than an hour’s rest since the night before last.

            “Why don’t you have a turn at being totally unable to control your own actions and nearly _kill_ someone? Can you imagine the crushing guilt that you might feel after you find out what you’d almost done? What you probably _would_ have succeeded at had Professor Emrys not been close by? How about having to endure countless tests afterwards to check whether or not you’re _lying_ about your memory gap, knowing that your own father, your teachers, your _friends_ could believe that you’ve gone mad—or worse, are a cold-blooded murderer? No? Then keep your fat trap _shut_.” Morgana narrowed her steely eyes at Will, who was, for once, heeding advice. He clamped his lips tightly and swallowed convulsively.

            “Can’t Alice do anything for him?” Freya asked. “Surely there’s some sort of elixir to ward off nightmares.”

            Morgana turned to her, anger disappearing in the face of a pallid, sickly-looking girl (Freya had lost a lot of blood, after all, but was taking replenishing potions on an hourly schedule.) “Yes,” she nodded. “The potions keep away bad dreams, but they aren’t sleeping draughts. One must actually be asleep for it to take effect.” At this, she turned a sharp glare toward Will again. “And you know that Sleeping Draughts can be dangerous over an extended period of time, so Alice doesn’t want to bother with them unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

            Merlin so very desperately wanted to ask her about Mordred, but he didn’t want to face her fiery/icy wrath. So instead he asked, “Can I see him?”

            The elder of the Pendragon siblings turned to him, eyebrows raising and fiery/icy wrath melting into a warm expression. It was kinder than the one she’d even shown to Freya—that one had been more pitying. Merlin was left with the impression that Morgana knew that Merlin was the one who had insisted that Arthur hadn’t been himself for the duel gone bad.

            “Um, I mean,” Merlin stuttered shyly, “if Arthur isn’t going to, well, throw things at me again.”

            A small smile turned up the corners of Morgana’s lips. “Come on,” she said, waving a hand invitingly.

            Freya nodded her blessing as Merlin stood, and Will regarded Merlin with a peculiar, almost betrayed, expression. Merlin followed Morgana across the wide room, passing empty beds. She parted the curtain and allowed him to enter Arthur’s bed space first, and closed it after them.

            Arthur was, if not sleeping, dozing. Dark rings encircled his eyes; a crease in his brow bespoke discomfort; and his blanket was fisted in his hands, which lay upon his chest. Morgana quietly sank into a chair that was at his side, robes rustling like dry leaves. Merlin stood for a moment, then crossed and sat in the other chair, careful for once to keep his clumsiness in check.

            The last thing he wanted to do, after all, was to wake Arthur up.

            Morgana, it seemed, was quite content to sit in amiable silence, and spent the time scrutinizing first Arthur, then Merlin, and then Arthur again, as though she were trying to play an extended version of ‘Spot the Difference’. Merlin wondered what she was thinking, but with her coolly schooled facial expressions she was incredibly difficult to read.

            Some time passed; and since Arthur hadn’t moved at all, Merlin safely surmised that he was indeed asleep. But he could only stand so long of staring intently at his friend, and soon enough he was able to recreate a perfect image of him in his mind without glancing at him, so that Merlin was quite sure he would never forget this day at Hogwarts where Arthur had been put under the _angario_ curse and slept for five hundred years afterwards looking like death warmed over. (That was a bit of an exaggeration, but Merlin was beginning to run out of patience.)

            He decided to occupy himself with looking round the small space that had been relegated to Arthur and his gifts and things.

            On Arthur’s bedside table was heaped mounds of sweets and enchanted cards, leaving nearly no room for his glass of water; his spectacles that had been placed there were nowhere to be seen (they were probably buried somewhere under the chocolate frogs and the pumpkin pasties). Merlin saw one card that was undoubtedly from Gwaine—beautiful calligraphy on the front read _Get thee well soon, Princess!_ , which was followed by several rough, moving sketches of a Quidditch-playing figure that Merlin assumed to be Arthur, despite the frilly dress and traditional cap.

            When he glanced up again, it was to find Morgana staring at him. Unable to stand her overt glares any longer, he frowned inquiringly. A sneer turned up the corners of her lips, but it was not a rude one—it was a smile that said, _I know something you don’t._ And while Merlin was quite unversed in the language of teenage girls, he knew enough that one of two things would happen: Morgana would drop heavy hints at him, which he would ask Freya to interpret for him; or Morgana would say nothing to him, which would be a hint in and of itself, and he would ask Freya to interpret it for him.

            As it turned out, it was the latter.

            Morgana mouthed an excuse to him, something like “I’m going to go sit with Freya,” (or it could have been “I’m growing two Flitwick flowers,” but Merlin was fairly certain he’d gotten it right the first time) and left him alone with a corpse-like Arthur.

            Merlin continued to sit in silent vigil, absently twiddling his thumbs. He wondered if Arthur was going to wake up any time soon, because it was starting to get late and he was hungry. Of course, since he knew where the kitchens were, he could always kip down there, but he also didn’t want to have another run in with Aredian. It was better to play it safe.

            “I wonder if there’ll be pudding,” Merlin wondered under his breath.

            “Really, Merlin? Pudding?”

            Startled, Merlin nearly jumped out of his seat and looked guiltily down at Arthur, who had cracked an eye open to glare at him.

            “I’ve only been lying here waiting for you to say something,” he croaked out, “but the first words out of your mouth are about _pudding_?”

            “Sorry,” Merlin whispered. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud, it just sort of slipped. I’ll be quiet. You go back to sleep.”

            Arthur made a show of rolling his eyes, which, with the deep bags under his eyes, made him look slightly demented. “I wasn’t sleeping in the first place, _Mer_ lin. Honestly, you’d think with those elf ears of yours you’d hear better.”

            Merlin couldn’t bring himself to be offended.

            The older Gryffindor sighed loudly. “Be honest with me, Merlin,” he said seriously. “How bad is it?”

            “Uh, is what?”

            “Everything. Freya. My father. My half-sister. Will. You. My reputation.”

            “I’m sure your reputation as a squinty-eyed dung beetle is still intact,” Merlin answered, nodding seriously. “Everyone’s fine. Well, Will sort of maybe hates you, but that’s not so different than he was in the first place. Freya isn’t angry at all, and neither is Lancelot or my mother or Freya’s parents or your father. But we’re still trying to figure out who’s cursed you.”

            Arthur was staring at him, looking affronted. “Squinty-eyed dung beetle?” he spluttered.

            Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Is that all you heard?”

            “I’ve never once resembled a squinty-eyed dung beetle!” Arthur protested. “If anything, I’ve looked a bit like a menacing, fire-breathing dragon, or a loveable golden retriever, or a—a—well, I’m not a dung beetle!”

            The raven-haired teen grinned. “I thought you rather looked like a hideous troll.”

            “You mean majestic hippogriff,” Arthur insisted stubbornly, but Merlin could see the flash in amusement in his tired eyes, which were brightening the longer he was awake. “Really, _Mer_ lin, I don’t know why I put up with you.”

            “Because deep, deep down you love me,” Merlin teased.

            Arthur said nothing, but averted his eyes and flushed crimson. Merlin’s grin faded a little, and he awkwardly cleared his throat.

            “Um, that was a joke…Uh, you don’t _really_ , uh,” he stammered nervously, fingers drumming on his thigh.

            Arthur’s eyes flicked toward him, and then he turned cross. “Of course not!” he snorted, derisively, as though the very idea of loving Merlin even very deep down were the most appalling thing. “Whoever would love _you_?”

            “Oh,” Merlin said, a bit stung at the tone.

            “I’m tired,” Arthur announced abruptly, giving Merlin no chance to say anything. “Go away. And tell Morgana that she’s not welcome, either.”

            “Oh,” Merlin repeated, for lack of anything intelligent to say. He was dumbstruck at the sudden change, and for a moment wondered whether the curse had been engaged again. Nevertheless, he did as he was told and stepped out, firmly closing the curtains behind him. Subdued, he returned to Freya’s bedside, where his friends (plus Morgana—he didn’t know whether they were friends or not yet) immediately picked up on his mood.

            “What’s up, Merlin?” Freya asked, putting her book down.

            “Arthur kicked me out,” Merlin said. “…Again.”

            Morgana rolled her eyes and stood. “I’ll talk to him.”

            “He says you’re not welcome, either,” Merlin informed her, shrugging when she gave him an incredulous look.

            “Like hell I’m not!” she exclaimed, spinning on her heel and flouncing toward Arthur’s bed, where she immediately broke out in a squabbling tirade. Merlin cringed inwardly, imagining that there would soon be another Pendragon duel.

            Will snorted. “Two peas in a pod, those two,” he said. “Can’t stand them.” He folded his arms across his chest and pressed himself back in his seat.

            Merlin took the one Morgana had just vacated. “I don’t understand him,” Merlin lamented. “Sometimes he’s nice, and then sometimes he’s mean! Which is it?”

            Freya sighed. “Merlin, you’re too naïve for your own good.”

            “And what’s that I’m naïve about?” Merlin scowled. “Maybe if everyone would stop looking at me like they know something I don’t, I wouldn’t be having all these problems.”

            Freya and Will shared a glance.

            “Merlin, mate,” Will said after a long, very put-upon sigh. “Arthur likes you.”

            “Then why’s he mean to me?”

            Freya answered, injecting her words with as much meaning as possible, “Arthur _likes_ likes you.”

            “Huh?”

            His friends sighed and shook their heads.

            “Merlin’s beard, Merlin,” Will moaned. “Listen: Arthur Pratdragon is in _love_ with you. As in he wants to kiss you, share a bath with you, cuddle in bed with you—although for that one he probably doesn’t know yet that you dig your sharp elbows into your bedmates while you’re sleeping. Anyway, the point is…”

            “Arthur loves me?” Merlin squeaked, pointing at himself disbelievingly. Suddenly all the pieces fit together.

            Arthur had been dropping some pretty heavy hints all this while.

            “Will!” Merlin gasped, “Why didn’t you _tell_ me!?”

            The other raised his hands defensively. “At first I thought you knew, but then I remembered that you’re an idiot. Gwaine and I have a bet going to see how long it takes you to see it. You owe me a Sickle, by the way.”

            “Merlin’s beard!” Merlin breathed, running his hands through his hair, which made it stick up every which way. “But we can’t have inter-team relations, right?”

            “It’s against the rules, technically,” Freya nodded. “But Gwen and Lancelot are dating.”

            Merlin looked up sharply, ogling. He’d known, of course, that the pair had been growing closer since Lancelot had returned from France, but he’d thought it was just friendship. How oblivious could he be?! Next thing he knew it would be Percy and Elena dating.

            _Percy and Elena_? He contemplated it for a moment, then nodded. It fit.

            But then he shook himself. There were more serious matters at hand.

            “But how can you be sure?” Merlin whined. “I think maybe he just hates me. Why would the Gryffindor Prefect and Quidditch Captain like someone like _me_?”

            “Oh, Merlin,” Freya said. “What’s not to love about you?”

            Merlin opened his mouth to list his many faults—he could be incredibly naïve and gullible, he was a bastard, his ears were too large, he stammered and rambled when he was nervous, he ate too many Bertie Bott’s Beans to be healthy, he was poor, clumsy, and annoying—but he decided against saying anything. He knew that Will and Freya would only point out his good qualities to counter any negativity.

            It seemed that they were going to do it anyway.

            “You’re smart,” Freya said.

            “Really nice,” Will added.

            “Charitable, open-minded.”

            “An amazing Seeker.”

            “You can speak Dragon Tongue and Old English—which, I suppose, goes along with intelligence, but it’s still very impressive, you know.”

            “You’re an artist, too.”

            “A real potions master.”

            “Your dad would be proud of you.”

            At that last, spoken by Will, tears welled up in Merlin’s eyes. He hardly remembered his father, but he’d been told many stories about him—about how brave and cunning he was, what a grand wizard he was, and a great Quidditch player, and of his efforts with the dragons abroad.

            He gave his friends a watery, touched smile. “Thanks,” he said a bit huskily.

            For a moment he forgot why he had been so upset. Being so thoroughly complimented often had that effect on him; praise was a rare occurrence for him.

            Will stood and clapped his hands together. “Well,” he said, “I’m starving, and dinner’s probably started by now. Shall I bring you some strawberries, Freya?”

            “Please,” she answered, flipping a page in her book and continuing the previous paragraph. “You go and eat, too, Merlin. You’ll feel better by the end of it, and maybe you could bring Arthur a parley gift.”

            “We’re not warring,” Merlin frowned.

            “All’s fair in love and war,” Will said sagely.

            “That’s completely out of context, William. Go on now, the both of you.”

            The boys shrugged and went off, treading lightly past Arthur’s bed so that the arguing match inside wasn’t interrupted. The last thing either of them wanted was to be dragged into it, or shouted at again. Merlin heard a snatch of Morgana’s tirade: “…absolutely, barking mad, Arthur?! You should be nicer to people who care about you, otherwise you won’t _have_ anyone who cares about you! What would Ygraine have said if she knew you…?” And then Arthur struggling to be heard, but overwhelmed by his half-sister’s volume and intensity: “…I…right, because…you…involved with Mor…favor…Don’t bring…up, it’s nothing to…”

            Merlin couldn’t make heads or tails of the fight, and he didn’t particularly want to. Best to let the dogfight run its course rather than get roughed up trying to get between them.

            _Or would it be a dragonfight? A pratfight? A Pratdragonfight_ , he decided.

            The childhood friends, once past that obstacle, raced one another down the stairs.

            It all felt quite normal again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait; school is a nightmare.

~9~

            Merlin headed toward the Quidditch pitch, broom slung heavily over his shoulder and dragging his toes through the dewy grass. He munched tiredly on a slice of buttered toast, not yet fully awake so early on a Saturday morning before Gwen had been ushering him out of the Great Hall.

            “Practice stops for no one,” she said without preamble, booting him ahead of her and grabbing several more pieces of toast for the rest of the team, who were still sitting blearily at Gryffindor table.

            He was the first to arrive, so he sat down in the sunlight, hoping to soak up some warmth while he waited. The morning was rather chilly.

            For some reason, Gwaine Greene was the next to arrive. Merlin didn’t bother to question it; if asked, Gwaine would probably say something, but he would say something anyway. He was right, because when Gwaine was close enough he flopped down on the grass beside the younger Gryffindor and smiled up at him, fingers interlocked behind his head of shaggy hair.

            “Good morning, Gwaine,” Merlin said.

            “G’morning, mate.” There was a beat of silence. “Did ya hear the one about Sophia Sidhe?”

            Merlin analyzed the question. Having been around Gwaine a few times, he knew enough that this was either the beginning of a very lewd joke, or it was a piece of gossip that Gwaine himself had embellished. “No,” he answered truthfully.

            “Right,” Gwaine said. “It’s only just happened this morning. The Slytherin House down in the basement was in a riot.”

            Merlin vaguely remembered that at breakfast, there had been considerably fewer Slytherins around. “A riot?”

            “Aye,” he nodded, looking serious. “I was trying to enchant the torches to flare up whenever someone passed—I was hoping someone would pee themselves—a harmless prank—when I was forced to hide. Professor Pendragon himself came down with Professors Gaius and Agravaine. And who else would be there but Sophia’s father, eh?”

            A first-hand account from Gwaine was rare, indeed, and even rarer was one that seemed to be told as it was. Merlin listened intently. Sophia Sidhe, he knew, was a Slytherin Beater—either she’d gotten hurt, or was in a lot of trouble. “Go on,” he said eagerly, when Gwaine didn’t immediately continue.

            Lancelot sidled up to them, looking curiously at Gwaine, but didn’t interrupt.

            “They went inside, but I couldn’t go anywhere. They could come out at any moment, y’see, and Professor Pendragon has promised retribution the next time he catches me out of place. Last time I had to polish every trophy in the castle, no magic. That took _hours_ , I tell ya.

            “Anyway, it seemed like Sophia and Daddy Dearest were making a scene. There was lots of shouting, and I s’pose the other students were getting involved, which set Professor Pendragon to using his King voice.”

            Merlin knew that voice—he’d heard it once, from two hallways away. The headmaster hadn’t been yelling, but the calm authority tended to carry.

            “Well, what happened?” he prompted.

            “Old Sidhe and his _charming_ daughter were forcibly removed from Hogwarts’ premises,” Gwaine shrugged. “I wouldn’t know any more about it…if I hadn’t followed them.”

            Merlin and Lancelot rolled their eyes.

            “One of these days, Gwaine,” Lancelot chastised good-naturedly.

            Gwaine grinned and winked at him. “Oh—here comes the rest of ya lot. I’d best be gone.”

            “But why was Sophia expelled?” Merlin called after him.

            The Gryffindor turned, but didn’t stop walking away. “I’ll tell ye later, mate! Meet me in the common room afterwards!”

            He passed the rest of the Gryffindor team, shepherded by Gwen toward the pitch. She exchanged a short, light greeting with him, and then he was gone.

            “Alright,” Gwen said loudly, her voice carrying over to Merlin and Lancelot, who brushed grass clippings from their scarlet robes. “Let’s get started!”

            “ _I’m_ the captain,” Arthur said just as loudly. It seemed that being laid up in the hospital wing and the last practice not having gone so great didn’t deter him from his leader-mentality. “Now, let’s get started!”

            No one argued, not wanting to see Arthur frustrated—or worse, depressed. Plus, everyone was antsy to get back in the game, to release some pent-up energy and some frustrations of their own.

            Merlin, of course, didn’t finish his laps first—his old broom was far too slow for that—but he did with the most grace and loop-de-loops and other general show-off moves for which his team teased him.

            It was nice to be back to normal routine. Those last two days had felt like forever.

            Then the real practice began, and Merlin took his position higher than the rest of the Gryffindor team. His job was still to look out for the Snitch, and then keep it in his sights without letting anyone else get to it before his team was ahead by at least a hundred points.

            He whiled away the time by performing lazy loop-de-loops and circling the others like his namesake. It seemed as though it were Thursday evening again, although now it was Saturday morning; the practice was relatively the same.

            Arthur shouted whenever someone did something dissatisfactory, or simply not satisfactory enough for him; Elyan and Leon practiced passing the Bludgers, and were having a sort of contest to see who could hit one the farthest across the field; Lancelot and Mithian tailed Gwen, who was rocketing toward Arthur to take a shot with the Quaffle. Arthur readied himself, darting back and forth in front of the center hoop.

            Gwen made a surprise move: she went left, but at the last second threw the Quaffle to the right, where Mithian was waiting. Arthur had moved to intercept Gwen, and was too far away to stop Mithian from scoring in the right hoop.

            Merlin whooped loudly, waving a fist. “Take that, you dollophead!”

            Arthur made an obscene gesture in his direction, followed by guffaws from both Merlin and Mithian. Lancelot and Gwen smiled fondly at the gruff display of affection on their captain’s part. Elyan and Leon had been too busy trying to keep the Bludgers from attacking their teammates to really notice what had happened.

            About an hour into the practice, Merlin spotted the Snitch. The Chasers had only gotten them up sixty points, but Merlin figured he could give chase. It was only practice, after all.

            So he raced after it, relishing the feel of the wind whipping through his dark locks and snatching at his crimson robes. His broom shuddered when he pressed for more speed, but he ignored the complaint and went on.

            The Snitch tried to throw him off several times, but Merlin’s eye was too quick, and his reflexes just as. He deftly switched directions, dodging obstacles and avoiding collisions with his mates. His hand stretched out, fingertips barely brushing the cool, sleek gold.

            At last, he snatched the Snitch out of the air, and pulled his broom up to a stop. A wide grin lit up his face, and he victoriously held it up in his fist to show his team that he’d won the game. Papery wings fluttered frantically between his fingers, tickling his skin.

            They cheered, with the exception of Arthur, who nodded approvingly, and motioned that they should all meet him on the ground. After he had _accio_ ’d the enchanted balls back into their cases and shut it, he turned to face them, squinting because he’d misplaced his spectacles again.

            “Excellent work today, all of you,” he said. “I’ve not a single doubt that we will win the Quidditch match, which is coming up next week.”

            The team grinned excitedly at the prospect.

            “It’s no secret that Morgana and I have had our spats,” Arthur said, “but this year it is imperative that I—we—best her. If we lose, then she will never, _ever_ stop going on about it. She’ll bring it up at every family reunion, every holiday, every birthday, et cetera, et cetera. I cannot allow that to happen.”

            “And here we thought you wanted to win for the glory,” Mithian teased.

            “That, too,” Arthur agreed. “My father, of course, can’t very well choose sides, but I know he expects one of us to have a big Quidditch trophy in the Hall of Trophies.”

            “And we’d better get one soon,” Elyan said, “because Gwaine graduates this year, and he’ll want a chance at polishing it for his detentions.”

            They all laughed good-naturedly at the jibe, knowing that Gwaine would have laughed the loudest had he been there.

            Merlin then remembered that Gwaine had wanted to meet him in the Gryffindor common room after the practice, to finish his gossip about Sophia Sidhe. He hoped Arthur would finish with his pep talk soon, because he was dreadfully curious.

            “As long as we keep up this great work,” Arthur continued, now pacing before them, “we _will_ win. We will utterly destroy the Slytherins—within the bounds of the rules, of course—and they will have been so crushed that their reputations will be in tatters, and our names will go down in history as the legendary Gryffindors with a winning streak so magnificent that it none can rival it! They will liken us to royalty! They will bow to us in the corridors! The Daily Prophet will stalk us for insider articles! We—“

            “Isn’t that going a little too far, _sire_?” Merlin asked dryly.

            Arthur flushed, apparently only just realizing what he had been saying. He awkwardly cleared his throat. “Right, well, um. Anyway, what I mean to say is that we will most definitely win, and, um, and have any of you…seen my glasses?”

            Everyone shook their heads mutely. (Gwen smiled indulgently as she did.)

            The captain let out a resigned sigh. “Very well. Practice is over. I want all of you to take a nice bath, relax for a bit. You all deserve it.”

            The team cheered as one, and gathered up their things. Gwen and Lancelot walked back to the castle side by side, hands occasionally touching lightly. If Merlin hadn’t known any better, he would have thought those instances mere accident—and it seemed Elyan had known better, too, because he followed the pair closely, emanating big brother aura. Mithian and Leon also headed toward the castle, avidly discussing what they hoped to eat for lunch—it was about that time.

            Merlin hung back a bit, waiting for Arthur to catch up.

            They hadn’t spoken since Arthur had kicked him out of his infirmary bed area, but Merlin knew that the prat wasn’t really angry with him. Not anymore, at least. He hoped.

            Arthur noticed him waiting, and suddenly looked torn between joining him and running in the opposite direction. But he trudged toward Merlin anyway, looking a bit pale in the afternoon sun.

            “What?” Merlin asked, puzzled at his reluctance.

            Arthur cleared his throat. “Um, you, uh—You did well today, Merlin.”

            Merlin grinned swiftly. “Is that a compliment I hear?”

            “Shut up, _Mer_ lin.” Arthur punched Merlin’s arm playfully and moved past him, looking pleased with his comeback.

            Merlin rubbed his bruised arm, wincing. He hurried after him clumsily, broom over his shoulder.

            “So where are you off to?”

            Arthur gave Merlin an odd look. “Back to the castle, of course.”

            “Where in the castle? Dinner? Common room? Library?”

            “Well, I don’t know—uh, dinner,” he answered, looking a bit flustered and slightly cross at the same time. “Why does it matter?”

            “It doesn’t, I s’pose,” Merlin shrugged. “Just wondering.”

            “Just wondering,” Arthur repeated disbelievingly.

            “Yes, just wondering.”

            They walked in awkward silence for a moment.

            “Well,” Merlin said suddenly. “I’m going to the common room! Gwaine is waiting for me. Oh, and Will’ll probably be there, too.”

            He ran off with long, ungainly lopes of his legs, leaving Arthur looking a bit longingly after him. Arthur seemed to make up his mind at last, and caught up with Merlin swiftly.

            “On second thought,” he said, and Merlin slowed, “I’m not very hungry. I could use some relaxing time in the common room.”

            “I’m not sure how much relaxation you’ll get,” the younger Gryffindor quipped. “Gwaine is there.”

            “Gwaine can bugger off. I’m the Prefect.”

            “It’s a good thing you remind us so often. Otherwise we’d forget.”

            Arthur made a move to punch Merlin, but he danced out of the way laughing and raced off toward the castle. The half-blood prince tore after him.

            It became a game.

            Of course, Arthur won. Though his legs were shorter, his stamina was greater. When Merlin lagged tiredly, he pulled ahead and reached the great doors first, and then caught his breath while waiting for Merlin to trudge up the steps.

            “Maybe you should lay off the Bertie Bott’s Beans, _Mer_ lin.”

            “ _You_ lay off the Bertie Bott’s Beans,” he retorted, bending double with his hands on his knees. “And the spotted dick, and the licorice wands, and the pasta. You don’t sweat very much for a fat guy.”

            “Fat? Excuse me?” Arthur cried, looking down and pulling the front of his robes taut against his flat belly.

            “Sorry, I meant your head was big.”

            Arthur rolled his eyes. “Come off it.”

            They went inside and turned up the stairs, heading for Gryffindor Tower. Merlin’s mouth watered at the delicious smells of lunch wafting from the Great Hall, but he had promised to meet Gwaine after practice, and he wanted to know the rest of his story from the morning.

            “Comic relief,” Arthur said to the Fat Lady portrait.

            “Yes, yes.” She swung open obligingly, sipping from her wine glass, and the boys stepped through.

            “Merlin, mate!” cheered Gwaine, banging a fist on the table at which he was seated. The chess pieces cried out in alarm and desperately tried to keep their balance. Gwaine’s opponent, Will, was glaring at the board, frustration evident in his tense manner. “Come, come, and hear me tale!”

            “What tale is it now, Gwaine?” Arthur sighed. “Do tell me it’s not the one with the Animagus.”

            “No, but I can tell that one later.”

            Merlin eagerly dragged a chair toward Gwaine and sat in it, laying his broomstick on his lap. Arthur looked indecisive for a moment, then heaved another sigh and joined them. Will remained stuck on his move, tuning out his surroundings.

            “Right,” Gwaine said, “so where did we leave it this morning?”

            “Sophia and her father were escorted out of Hogwarts,” Merlin said.

            “Precisely, my friend! Now, I was standing just inside, behind that big pillar by the door, see, and ol’ Professor Pendragon, he said that he wouldn’t tolerate that sor’ of magic on his grounds. He told ‘em that if he ever caught them within the bound’ries of Hogwarts again, he’d call in the Min’stry, an’ as it is, they’ve been summoned before the court to face charges.”

            “Charges of what?” Merlin asked, leaning forward as Gwaine did.

            Arthur interrupted: “Sophia was the one who cursed me.”

            Gwaine groaned loudly and threw his hands up. “ _Princess_! I was only just getting to that! Ye’ve ruined the whole story. I’ve got a system ‘ere, and it _works_. Ye’ve gone and upset the bardic balance, ya fool.”

            Will made a triumphant noise and at last directed a pawn to move two paces forward. Gwaine nonchalantly blocked it with his queen, simultaneously putting his opponent’s king in check, and then turned back to his conversation as Will despaired.

            The Prefect rolled his eyes. “I’m surprised you haven’t added anything in about fierce duels or dragons swooping out of the sky.”

            “I speak only the truth,” Gwaine said, feigning hurt. “Now, if ye want to hear about dragons, I’ll ya ‘bout this Animagus I once dated. She—“

            “ _No_ , thank you,” Arthur said firmly, standing. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to lunch.”

            “Later, Princess,” Gwaine waved. When his back was turned, Gwaine winked at Merlin. “How was practice, mate?”

            “Excellent,” Merlin said. “The team is working smoothly, and I always catch the Snitch.” He caressed the worn wood of his Comet 200. “It’s old, but trusty.”

            Gwaine grinned swiftly. “Aye. I’ve seen ye fly. The things ye can do on this broom—well, imagine what ye could do on the latest versions!”

            Merlin smile faltered slightly, and a wistful expression flitted across his face before he managed to cover it. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Imagine that.”

            “I forfeit!” Will exclaimed.

            The crafty Gryffindor glanced over at him, eyes twinkling in amusement. “Exercise your brain, my friend! The more ya use it, the wittier you become! As my official progeny, ‘tis your destiny.”

            “I know,” Will said glumly. “But chess has never been my forte!”

            “It will be soon,” Gwaine said softly, laying a hand over Will’s.

            They stared soulfully into one another’s eyes for a long moment, interrupted only when Merlin snorted with laughter. The other two grinned and burst into giggles as well.

            “Speaking of destiny,” Will said, turning to Merlin, “have you finished your divination chart?”

            Merlin shook his head. “I was just going to put as much bad luck as I could into it.”

            “Me, too.”

            “Bad luck?” Gwaine exclaimed. “Nay, think positively! Will, tomorrow’s the full moon, innit? So ye’d write that ye’ll be endowed with fairy magic, giving your skin a healthy glow. Merlin, mate, ye’d fall down the stairs and live, so that’s a plus, eh?”

            “I’d rather break my neck,” Merlin said. “Then I wouldn’t have to go to Divination.”

            “Here’s a secret, mate,” Gwaine said, leaning in. “Professor Nimueh is deathly afraid of lightning bolts, yeah? Write that ye dreamed that she was struck by one shortly after flunking ya, and ye’ll never fail.” He sat back with a confident smirk.

            Will and Merlin exchanged a glance.

            “Now,” Gwaine said. “Who wants to hear ‘bout the dragon Animagus I dated once?”


	10. Chapter 10

~10~

            “You did _what_?!” Freya gasped, mortified. “Oh, I can’t believe you! That’s awful!”

            “Ah, come off it,” Will rolled his eyes. “Prof. Nimueh was being a right—“

            “Don’t say it,” Freya warning, eyes narrowed. “Merlin, don’t tell me that you did it, too?”

            Merlin shrugged noncommittedly, quill scratching on his sheet of parchment.

            In fact, Merlin _had_ taken Gwaine’s suggestion to prophesize Nimueh’s death by lightning. At the beginning of class, Nimueh had marched by his table and snatched up his homework with a sneer, and glanced over it. But then her face had blanched, right down to the lips, and her blue eyes had bulged. With a strangled cry, the professor had swooned right then and there, and Alice had to be called to transfer her to the infirmary. Nimueh still hadn’t recovered from her shock, and lay moaning and weeping with nightmares and premonitions of her death.

            Of course Merlin felt a bit guilty. But he did work hard on that homework for a better part of the weekend—consider it a work of fiction, a short story. He also illustrated it with colored ink. Merlin was an artist.

            “Oh, I can’t believe you two,” Freya said. “What would your mothers say?”

            “Mine can’t say much,” Will said, “you know, being dead and all.”

            “You know what I meant, William Wiga.”

            “Yeah, yeah.”

            “I don’t think Gwaine Greene is a very good influence,” Freya continued disapprovingly. “He’s very smart, of course, but I don’t think he puts his talent to good use.”

            “What?” Will squawked. “Just ‘cause he doesn’t keep his nose in books all the time like you doesn’t mean he’s not putting his talents to good use!”

            Freya flushed. “I didn’t say that!”

            “Why are you so judgy?” Will wrinkled his nose distastefully.

            “I’m not!”

            Merlin sighed as his friends began to bicker yet again. It was all too normal.

            A familiar voice interrupted the proceedings: “Why don’t you two just kiss already?”

            The trio turned on the bench and saw Morgana with her Firebolt over her shoulder. One of her teammates, stood behind her, smirking rather cruelly for no apparent reason. Merlin belatedly recognized her as Morgause le Fay, Morgana’s older half-sister (no relation to the Pendragons).

            Unlike Morgause, Morgana was smiling friendly at them, especially Merlin. “Our match is coming up next week,” she said, eyes blazing with competitive excitement. “Are you ready?”

            Merlin thought back to Arthur’s words from the previous practice: _“Under no circumstance whatsoever are any of you to discuss Gryffindor Quidditch with any non-Gryffindor members. Understand? Don’t tell them anything we’ve done, or where we meet, or how we’re doing, or even if we’re ready! Understand? Do. You. Under_ stand _,_ Mer _lin?”_

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Merlin said perfunctorily. He grinned.

            Morgana laughed. “Well, I see Gwen and Lance sitting under a tree there. Maybe I’ll see if they’re kissing, if you two aren’t in the mood to put on a show.” She winked and then passed them, making a beeline for the couple watching the lake monster’s many tentacles form complicated knots for entertainment. It was currently tying itself into an impressive Celtic heart knot.

            Merlin glanced over at Will and Freya, who had gone unnervingly silent. Both had pinked cheeks, and he was sure that it wasn’t from the chilly wind. The silence extended awkwardly.

            “Well, this has been fun,” Will said, standing abruptly. “I’m going to find Gwaine.”

            Freya sighed. “Fine, just don’t sneak about with him, is all.”

            Will waved in acknowledgement, hurrying away. He scratched the back of his neck as he went—a tic he did when embarrassed.

            Merlin spoke up, “You and Will should date.”

            “What?!” Freya spluttered, flustered. “I don’t—we don’t—he—you—um! Well, you should get with Arthur! You both like each other, and he’s as—as dollop-headed as you are, Merlin!”

            He cocked an eyebrow in response, amused.

            “Well, what I mean is,” Freya blustered on, “you’re perfect for each other, is all!”

            “Are we?” asked Merlin.

            Freya nodded fervently, grateful for the change in topic. “Oh yes. You two make a cute couple.”

            “Not as cute as you and Will.”

            “Ohhh! Stop it, Merlin!”

            Merlin grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extremely short transitional chapter.


	11. Chapter 11

~11~

            The next week passed in a flash (a rather painfully blinding one) to Merlin.

            He was so nervous about the upcoming match that he’d burned a cauldron in Potions, getting the Eyebrow of Doom from Gaius; he accidentally singed the top of Prof. Alator’s bald head in Charms; Prof. Borden banished him from the greenhouses for the rest of his natural life after his herbivicus spell had gone horribly wrong, resulting in the annihilation of the greenhouse and most of the plants in it; when the headmaster had wished him luck he’d made a fool of himself by toppling out of his chair, knocking his head on the bookshelf behind him, and sending a pile of musty, ancient books to the floor, which put the normally amicable Geoffrey of Monmouth in a rage; and to top it all off—Gwaine and Will were _entertaining_ him with ideas of the things that could go wrong during the match.

            At the moment, he and Gwaine were in detention together—Merlin serving his lifetime sentence from Prof. Borden, and Gwaine being there for no reason at all—polishing the endless multitudes of trophies awarded to the school, teachers, and students since Hogwarts’ foundation in the medieval era.

            “Of course,” Gwaine said thoughtfully, while Merlin desperately resisted the urge to bash his brains out with Romilda Hilde’s Gobstone Champion trophy, “if Morgana _does_ jinx Arthur, then the referee will have to step in and award Gryffindor a penalty shot or two, depending on whether Arthur’s dead or not.”

            “The match would stop if Arthur’s dead!” Merlin exclaimed.

            Gwaine laughed. “The princess won’t die, mate, I swear’t. Elyan and Leon, on the other hand…”

            “Can’t we talk about something else?”

            “Of course! Has Arthur asked you to accompany ‘im on the next Hogsmeade weekend?”

            “Eh?” Merlin’s hand ceased polishing, and he looked up at Gwaine with some confusion. “Why would he go and ask me something like that?”

            “Because he wants to snog ya.”

            “Well, yeah,” Merlin blushed, “but does he really need to wait so long for that?”

            Gwaine’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and then he burst out into peals of laughter. “I can’t decide whether yer too innocent or not innocent enough!”

            “I just think that if you like someone, you should say it! Just get right to the snogging and save time, you know?” Merlin returned to vigorously rubbing out a stubborn spot on the gilded trophy.

            “Like this?”

            Merlin had only a split second to register the coarseness of Gwaine’s palm as he turned his face, then mashed their lips together. But the kiss had only lasted a moment—Gwaine released him almost instantly, and Merlin pulled away, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

            Gwaine smiled sweetly.

            “Uh—you—hmmm.”

            “Princess!” Gwaine exclaimed. “What brings you here to the detention lounge?”

            Merlin whipped around to see Arthur standing in the doorway, face pale as milk. As Gwaine spoke, a rouge entered his cheeks, and he spoke curtly: “I’m here to inform Mr. Emrys that, due to the first Quidditch match coming up tomorrow, his detention has been overturned and he may return to Gryffindor Tower…Or do as he pleases.” Then he spun swiftly on his heel and marched away.

            “Arthur!” Merlin called after him.

            He shot an exasperated glare at Gwaine, who merely shrugged back innocently. Merlin pushed himself to his feet, abandoning his polishing rag and unfinished trophy, and hurried after his friend.

            “Good luck!” Gwaine hollered.

            Arthur strode briskly ahead, chin held high. He refused to look back at Merlin or even slow down for him.

            “Don’t be a clotpole!” Merlin huffed when he caught up. Despite his long legs he had difficulty in keep pace.

            The Gryffindor Prefect and Quidditch captain squinted forwards and didn’t reply.

            “C’mon, Arthur! What, did you see me and Gwaine kiss? Because that was not—“

            “Good night, Mr. Emrys,” Arthur interrupted, turning down a passage that Merlin knew led to the headmaster’s office. Merlin’s steps faltered unsurely, and he ground to a halt just within the corridor, unwilling to follow him to that place. Arthur stalked off without a backward glance.

            “You clotpole!” Merlin shouted after him, voice reverberating sharply. “Dollophead!”

            Arthur, for once, didn’t rise to the bait, and swiftly disappeared round a bend.

            Merlin was left alone, feeling quite miserable for no reason at all that he could discern, which made him feel cross, particularly at Gwaine. He marched back to the trophy room, intent on giving Gwaine a piece of his mind, but when he arrived it was to find the room spic and span, and Gwaine nowhere in sight.

            He huffed.

            There was nothing left to do but return to Gryffindor Tower. So he did, stomach rumbling with hunger because he had missed dinner. He didn’t go down to the kitchens, though, because as hungry as he was he was also tired of having to deal with so much drama and the stress of tomorrow’s match, and all he wanted was to sleep.

            “Gobstones,” he said wearily to the Fat Lady, who cracked a dozing eye open and swung forward. Merlin climbed in through the portrait hole.

            There were a few people in the common room, but they were mostly older students desperately cramming for an upcoming test.

            Blowing a sigh through his lips, Merlin started up to his dormitory, hoping that there would be some peace and quiet. There was; all of his roommates were sound asleep, snoring softly in the dark. Merlin collapsed in his own bed without changing or drawing his curtain.

            _Merlin_ …

            His eyes snapped open and stared into the shadows above him.

            “What?” he whispered irritably. Why couldn’t people just leave him be?

            But no one spoke, and Merlin came to decide that he had imagined the voice and so went to sleep.

            _Merlin!_

            This time there was no mistaking the urgency in the tone. Merlin bolted upright, robes rustling and heart pounding. He listened carefully, cocking his head back and forth in search of his caller.

            _Merlin_ …

            He was suddenly struck with the impression that, though the voice was undoubtedly in his head, it was coming from below. After only a second of hesitation, Merlin quickly pulled his shoes on and quietly slipped out of the door. Whomever the voice belonged to seemed to be in some sort of trouble.

            Merlin warily considered that it could be a trick of that Slytherin boy’s—Mordred. He was quite certain that he had spoken in his head as well. Once in the Great Hall, and another time during that fateful Quidditch practice. But this voice sounded different. It was far more masculine.

            _Merlin…_

            And quite insistent.

            He treaded as quietly as he could downstairs, hoping that there was no one left in the common room to notice him leave. It was after hours, after all, and it wouldn’t do to be caught wandering on the very eve of the first Quidditch match, let alone one so important.

            Luckily for him, the room was empty but for a warm, crackling fire, and Merlin hurried to the portrait hole. He pushed the Fat Lady open softly, hoping that she was sleeping and wouldn’t wake indignantly. Again luck was on his side.

            _Merlin_ …

            “I’m coming,” he whispered. “Where are you?”

            _Merlin_ …

            Something tugged his mind downward, and he obediently followed, already having forgotten all about how tired he was. He hurried down the stairs and peered around corners, keeping a sharp eye for any ghosts who might raise the alarm (especially Tristan and Isolde, the prats) and especially for Aredian. He shuddered to think what might happen if he were caught.

            It didn’t take long for Merlin to realize that the voice was calling him to the dungeons, where the Slytherins lived. He hesitated unsurely. He wasn’t going to be able to get into the Slytherin dorms—and also, he wondered, did Mordred have an older brother who was going to beat him up on the younger’s behalf?!

            _Foolish warlock! Keep going._

            Merlin snuck past the entrance to the Slytherin common room and found that there was another corner down a ways that he hadn’t known about. (And why would he, since he never had cause to go to the creepy old dungeons?) A dark stair led down into a dark abyss.

            The voice was definitely coming from there.

            Gulping, Merlin looked one last time over his shoulder, and then began his descent. He was halfway down when something warm brushed past his leg.

            With a startled yelp, Merlin jumped and lost his footing, sending him tumbling the rest of the way down. He lay stunned for a moment in a tangle of arms and legs, then groaned painfully and pushed himself up.

            There, sitting on the third step from the bottom, was Kilgharrah, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

            “What are you doing here?” Merlin asked, perplexed. He was also slightly nervous because it was the headmaster’s cat, after all, and there was always a chance that Kilgharrah could somehow inform his master of Merlin’s sneaking about.

            Kilgharrah simply flicked his tail, jumped the last steps (his extreme girth acted as a buoy midair, gleaming fur rippling majestically) and trotted regally past him, nose and tail high. Merlin followed dumbly, more confused than ever. It didn’t help that the voice that had been calling him had fallen silent.

            They went deep into the bowels of the deepest dungeons where some obnoxious liquid constantly dripped and the mildew smell penetrated Merlin’s nostrils. He rubbed his bruises nervously the farther they went.

            At last, they reached a cave.

            How in the world there was a cave beneath Hogwarts was beyond Merlin, but it was there, and they stopped at a protruding ledge that overlooked the dark expanse. Merlin took out his wand and whispered, “ _Lumos_.”

            The tip of his wand lit up just in time for him to watch Professor Pendragon’s cat perform a spectacular, suicidal leap over the edge.

            “Ahh!” was all he could utter, shocked, appalled, and mortified.

            There was the hideous sound of a short _flap!_ that echoed throughout the cavern.

            “Poor Kilgharrah,” Merlin said sadly.

            _Yes,_ drawled the voice. _Poor Kilgharrah, indeed._

            There was a mighty whoosh as a humongous golden blue shot straight up in the air, the wind buffeting Merlin back a few steps. He dropped his wand in shock, and it rolled nearly over the ledge before he dove forward and snatched it with his fingertips. He pointed it upward and shouted instinctively, “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

            A silvery wisp of light smoked from his wand tip, then ineffectively tapered away into the darkness.

            The Great Dragon lighted on a stone cropping, rolling its huge eyes. “You’re just as dimwitted as your previous selves, young warlock.”

            “Huh?” Merlin gibbered, high voice ringing.

            “Why haven’t you and Arthur begun courting yet?” The dragon turned its head so that one eye was level with Merlin, who made a squeaking noise in the back of his throat. “Why is it always me who has to work so hard in every life? I’m not a matchmaker any more than I am a cat.”

            At the word ‘cat,’ Merlin suddenly remembered Kilgharrah.

            “You monster!” he cried tremulously. “You ate Kilgharrah! That was the headmaster’s cat! What’d he ever do to you, you great brute?!”

            The dragon snorted and shook its giant head. “Don’t be a fool, young warlock! I _am_ Kilgharrah! I had to retain that wretched form for years, living with Uther, waiting for the day when you and Arthur would meet! All of my previous attempts to put you two together always failed. You never found his glasses until I specifically put them in your bookbag, and by then you’d already tried out for the Quidditch team. Four years I’ve been trying, young warlock!”

            “What?”

            “But no matter!” Kilgharrah exclaimed. “I must tell you something of utmost importance. Morgana Pendragon and her ilk are not to be trusted.”

            “Well duh,” Merlin snorted. “They’re Slytherin.”

            “Indeed,” he mused. “Anyway, now that that’s out of the way, we can move on to more pleasant business.”

            “In a cave?” Merlin wrinkled his nose. “Can’t we talk somewhere nicer? Like in the library? Or outside?”

            “No. About you and Arthur: you are two sides of the same coin; you are the moon to his sun; you are Emrys, and he the Once and Future King. Destiny has decreed that—“

            Merlin interrupted him with a rather large yawn. “Can we maybe, uh, talk tomorrow? I’m really tired, and I have to get up early for the Quidditch match tomorrow and all…”

            “Oh, very well. But I expect you to meet me back here at noon sharp on Sunday.”

            “Agreed.”

            “Good night, Merlin.”

            “Good night, Kilgharrah.”

            So Merlin turned to leave, but then stopped suddenly and turned back. “Actually,” he said slowly, holding his wand aloft to see the dragon more clearly, “can I ask you some advice?”

            “Of course.”

            “So Arthur may or may not have seen me and a friend, uh, kiss. But it was just a short peck, and it didn’t mean anything! And Arthur saw it, and he seemed really upset about it, and he wouldn’t listen to my explanation…I’m worried that he won’t speak to me again.”

            “One cannot truly hate that which makes him whole,” Kilgharrah said sagely.

            Merlin glared at him. “Living up to the stereotype, are you?”

            “Living up to it?” Kilgharrah said. “I _invented_ it.”

            “Of course. Well, so long, then.”

            Merlin thought about what Kilgharrah had said on his way back to Gryffindor Tower. _One cannot truly hate that which makes him whole_. So Arthur didn’t hate him—but that didn’t mean that Arthur couldn’t be really, really, _really_ cross with him.

            What if Arthur was so jealous that he was off-game tomorrow, and they lost the match? Then Arthur would probably blame Merlin for that, as it was Merlin’s fault that he was so distracted. Or what if _Merlin_ was the distracted one, and Mordred caught the Snitch before him, and Gryffindor lost? Then Arthur would blame Merlin for that, as it was Merlin that was so distracted and cost them the game.

            It was all very confusing, and he’d not thought of an answer when he crawled back into his bed, still fully dressed. He closed his eyes and puffed out a sigh, his body finally relaxing. In an instant he was asleep.

            But all too soon (about twenty minutes, in fact), Merlin was being shaken awake by an apologetic-looking Lancelot, who beckoned him forth from his bed. With Lancelot’s silent direction, a drowsy, unsteady Merlin managed to dress himself in his Quidditch robes and remember to bring his broom, then tromped downstairs at the older Gryffindor’s heels. The rest of his team was already downstairs, ready to go, even the sun had not yet begun to dawn.

            Merlin yawned hugely, like just about everyone else, and obediently followed the group to the Great Hall for an early breakfast. Unsurprisingly, the Slytherin team was there as well. The only difference was that they all looked well-rested and confident.

            “Brother dear,” Morgana greeted sweetly.

            “Morgana,” Arthur replied, drawing himself to his full height.

            She smiled and swept past him, her smirk turning malicious the moment her face was out of sight. Merlin saw it, though, and remembered Kilgharrah’s warning to not trust them. He had a bad feeling, especially when he saw the new girl on the team, one he didn’t recognize, slink past the Gryffindor table for no apparent reason. She turned away at the last minute and went to her own table.

            Merlin felt exceptionally queasy and so didn’t eat or drink anything.

            It wasn’t long before the rest of the school, students and professors alike, began to fill up the Great Hall and eat, chattering excitedly and placing bets. The only outcome of the match Merlin was sure of was that Gwaine would be rich at the end of it, regardless of whose team won. He was a very thorough gambler.

            Speaking of Gwaine, he was finally entering the Hall. Will was with him, looking enthusiastically at the list the elder held that was undoubtedly covered with his neat handwriting, clearly listing names and numbers. Following behind were Percival and Elena, both sporting Gryffindor buttons in support of the team. They stopped at the table for a moment to wish them luck. Gwaine and Percival, upon learning that Merlin wasn’t going to eat his bacon, happily released him of that burden and moved on to the Hufflepuff table.

            Merlin glanced at the rest of his teammates.

            Lancelot and Gwen were talking animatedly about something or other, occasionally blushing as they stared into one another’s eyes; Leon was stirring a bowl of cereal, breakfast of champions; Mithian was discreetly sleeping, chin rested on her fist; Elyan was looking decidedly green in the face, munching nervously on a slice of toast.

            Arthur was hunched over his plate, eating with gusto and infrequently sparing a few seconds to encourage all of his teammates to eat up so that they had energy to last a week, if need be. Well, all but Merlin. He was ignoring him, it seemed.

            Merlin slumped a bit.

            It seemed that his worries just might come true.

            He could only hope that Gwaine didn’t commentate anything embarrassing. Merlin’s mum was going to be there, of course.

            Bloody hell.


	12. Chapter 12

~12~

            “Annnnnnnd another ten points to Slytherin, thanks to le Fay,” Gwaine drawled out, obviously disappointed. Morgause zipped by triumphantly, much to the cheers of her House.

            Merlin clutched at his hair, which was already sticking up in every direction in a way that was making his mother give off cringe-vibes all the way from her seat in the stadium. There was something seriously wrong, but he couldn’t figure it out—only that his team was off their game. Instead of watching for the Quaffle or Bludgers, they were watching the new girl on the Slytherin team, who had replaced the Beater Sophia after she had been expelled.

            Actually, she wasn’t that good of a player. She mostly weaved in and out and around the Gryffindor players, her dark hair flying behind her. Merlin didn’t understand it. Even Lancelot, who practically worshiped Gwen, was turning to look at her when she passed.

            “The Quaffle passes from le Fay to Pendragon, Pendragon to Dowling, Dowling to le Fay—and le Fay scores. _Princess, get ya head together, mate! I’ve got Galleons riding on this game, ya tw—_ Sorry, I meant that Slytherin is forty up Gryffindor’s zero.”

            The crowd suddenly gasped and groaned in collective sympathy, and Merlin whipped around to see what had happened.

            “Bane knocked a Bludger and Smithson took it right to the back o’ the head!” Gwaine roared from his commentator podium. “Smithson was paying attention to Lamia, a beautiful young transfer student, who knocks the Bludger at him ag—and Smithson’s down! An amazing move by Lamia, and off she goes, the beauty!”

            As Merlin watched, Elyan slid off his broom and plummeted unconscious toward the pitch. Luckily, the referee Iseldir managed to slow his descent so that he was not hurt.

            Breathing in relief, Merlin turned back to his task of keeping an eye out for the Snitch. But he couldn’t help but notice that Arthur was drooling at Lamia off to one side rather than guarding his hoops, resulting in Slytherin gaining another ten points.

            At this rate, Gryffindor would surely lose.

            Finally, Merlin couldn’t take it anymore. Their only chance was if Merlin caught the Snitch as soon as possible, Arthur’s instructions to wait be damned! He scanned the Quidditch pitch desperately.

            They were down a Beater, and his team was acting as though—

            Everything suddenly clicked.

            “Time out!” he bellowed, waving to Professor Iseldir, who whistled.

            “Time out!” he called, halting the game. All the players obligingly landed on the grass; Arthur stormed angrily toward Merlin.

            “Gryffindor Seeker Emrys has initiated a time out,” Gwaine announced. “Hopefully we can revive Smithson in a moment.” He continued rattling off the scores and his predictions for the game, but whatever he said was lost to Merlin.

            “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, Emrys?” Arthur seethed.

            “You’re all enchanted!” Merlin hissed back. “Don’t you realize? Slytherin is winning because you’re all paying attention to Lamia!”

            “Yeah!” Mithian agreed, Gwen nodding fervently beside her. “What’s up with you blokes?”

            Leon, Lancelot, and Arthur immediately became defensive.

            “Well,” Lancelot ground out, “it’s not our fault that Slytherin’s got the most beautiful girl in school on their team!”

            Gwen stepped back as though she had been dealt a physical blow. “Lance!”

            “He’s enchanted, Gwen!” Merlin said. “Right, I’ll get Prof. Iseldir, he can put a stop to this until—“

            “You’ll do no such thing!” Arthur growled, grabbing Merlin roughly by the arm. “Just because you three can’t see how wonderful Lamia is doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for everyone else! Why do you have to be so stupid and annoying?”

            “She’s not wonderful,” Merlin argued, shrugging off his words. “Obviously she’s done something to you!”

            “Listen, you shit-stabber,” Arthur said, giving him a shake. “Get back on your broom and do your job, or you’re off the team!”

            Merlin reeled at the derogatory insult, and distantly heard Gwen and Mithian gasp. Enchanted Arthur could be quite cruel; and Merlin wondered whether this spark of cruelty was always in him deep down, waiting to be released. Then white-hot rage coursed through his system. “I’ll catch the Snitch,” he said, “and I’ll win us this match. But don’t you expect me to ever save your arse again!”

            With enraged tears in his eyes, Merlin straddled his broom and shot upwards and away from his teammates. Iseldir whistled again, signaling the end of the time out, and the rest of the players (minus Elyan, who was still lying prostrate on the grass) joined him in the air.

            Merlin tuned everyone out and focused solely on finding the Snitch. He was the only one who could salvage the match; and besides, even if the professors noticed something was wrong, there was no guarantee that anyone could prove that Lamia had done something to the Gryffindor team.

            And at last he spotted a tiny golden glint in the distance.

            Mordred was hovering close to it; if the younger Seeker were to see Merlin zooming toward it, it was all too likely that Mordred would turn and catch it first. That would be an unspeakable atrocity—so much so that it wouldn’t even be published in history books.

            So instead of diving for it, Merlin watched it carefully, praying that Mordred wouldn’t turn around. Luckily, the Snitch darted away. And Mordred was too busy staring intensely at Arthur breezily allow Morgana to score another goal (he was busy trying to impress Lamia by flexing) to notice the Snitch in the first place.

            At that moment, as though feeling Merlin looking at him, Mordred snapped his gaze to the Gryffindor’s.

            _Emrys_ , said that eerie voice.

            Merlin recoiled and darted away on his broomstick, hoping that more distance would make it difficult for Mordred to get in his head; for that was what he was doing. He knew the feeling for certain now that he’d been called to Kilgharrah.

            It seemed that Mordred misinterpreted Merlin’s move, because the younger boy flew after him. Merlin realized that he thought the Snitch had been spotted.

            Just as well, because after a moment Merlin _did_ spy it.

            He adjusted his course and rocketed after it. His Comet shuddered in protest beneath him as he pushed for more and more speed. Merlin was all too aware that Mordred, on his much newer Firebolt, was catching up very quickly.

            By that time Gwaine noticed the race, and his commentary became very excited, which in turn affected the crowd: “And the Seekers have spotted the Snitch! Gryffindor’s Emrys is in the lead, but Disir is right on his tail! _Go, Merlin, go_ —I mean, Merl—uh, Emrys—is still closing in!”

            Merlin pulled a sharp turn to follow the Snitch as it switched direction in midair. His heart leapt into his throat as he realized it was doubling back, directly in Mordred’s path. But Mordred was too slow and missed it by a hairsbreadth, and Merlin relaxed as the Snitch darted out of sight again.

            But Mordred pulled up beside him, looking intensely at him. “Emrys,” he said aloud. “Listen to me! I can’t say anything directly, but you have to know that Morgana’s planning something!”

            Merlin glared at him. “I know that!” he seethed. “What is she doing? How did she enchant us?”

            The younger Gryffindor looked frustrated. “I can’t say! You have to convince Arthur to forfeit the match, or something bad will happen!”

            “Why don’t you tell Professor Iseldir?” Merlin scowled. “He’ll have to listen to you if you think there’s a threat. He’d think I was saying something against you because my team is losing!”

            “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Emrys,” the Slytherin Seeker said. Then he flew off, leaving Merlin to stew.

            Fat chance he was going to try to convince Arthur again. What he couldn’t figure out was how the Slytherins had managed to enchant them—but only the other males on the team. He, Gwen, and Mithian weren’t affected by whatever they had done.

            Merlin was sure it was to do with Lamia.

            He stared after the girl suspiciously, then slowly ascended until he was once more at his position high over the stadium. Here he could keep an eye out for the Snitch, but more importantly, watch Lamia. She seemed incredibly at ease on her broom, and hardly paid attention to the game at all except when a Bludger flew at her.

            Morgana scored another ten points for Slytherin, as Arthur was busy smoothing the front of his robes and trying to tame his hair. Gwen and Mithian helplessly rushed about, desperately trying to snatch the Quaffle, but they were harassed by Bludgers; and Leon, their remaining Beater, was surreptitiously cupping his hand in front of his face and trying to check the freshness of his breath.

            Merlin grumbled in frustration.

            And Gwaine certainly wasn’t helping matters: “…there goes lovely Lamia! Ah, I could write po’try ‘bout that lass…Right, professor, I meant that she’s knocked a Bludger, but Montgomery dodged it well enough…Emrys is floating around up there, looking for the Snitch. If anyone’s interested, he’s a good snogger—sorry, Prof. Emrys, didn’t mean to shock ya—anyway, Pendragon scores another ten points because other Pendragon—and look at Lamia’s beautiful flying maneuvers!”

            If only he could prove that Slytherin had done something!

            Kara scored another ten points for her team. Merlin thought he might cry.

            “Slytherin is up seventy points,” Gwaine informed the crowd, most of which was jeering. The Gryffindor Seeker had to turn and look at the scoreboard in disbelief, but what the commentator had said was correct. Merlin had to find the Snitch again as soon as possible; Lamia was knocked down the priority list.

            He pushed his broom higher, eyes frantically scanning the stadium and pitch for any hint of flashing gold. But all he could see was chaos—his team was in tatters whereas Slytherin was still a working unit. How was it possible for things to have gone so wrong?

            It all seemed so surreal.

            They were all being so very irrational, even Gwaine, when it came to Lamia. As he flew by one of the stands, he looked over at Gwaine, who was leaning with his chin on his fist watching Lamia zoom about. The professors sitting behind him seemed just as befuddled as Merlin was, but obviously they weren’t going to do anything about it without any reason to intervene: as far as they knew, the Gryffindor players were just having a bad day.

            Except, Merlin locked eyes with his uncle Gaius, who had come to see him play despite not being particularly interested in the game. Gaius looked perturbed; his eyebrow was doing that thing that it did whenever Gaius suspected something but was holding his tongue.

            Merlin gave him a meaningful look, then moved his gaze to Gwaine and back again. Gaius nodded, understanding that Merlin wanted him to take a look at him.

            Then Merlin flew off, feeling a slight burden lifted. If anyone could figure out what was wrong and put a stop to it, it was Gaius.

            “Disir’s spotted the Snitch!” Gwaine shouted, slapping away Gaius’ probing fingers.

            Merlin’s heart leapt into his throat, and he whipped around midair to see that Mordred was chasing it. He pursued at once, cursing his slow broom and his own inattentiveness.

            Mordred was far too close to it; his hand was reaching out to grab it, fingers outstretched, just brushing the cool metal. There was no way Merlin would reach them in time—Gryffindor was doomed.

            But then—a miracle.

            Iseldir blew his whistle sharply, and Mordred had no choice but to allow the Snitch to escape. The Quidditch players all halted in midair, Mordred looking quite angry. After all, he’d nearly just won the match.

            The referee called them all down to the pitch, where they were surprised to see the severe-faced headmaster, a bemused Professor Gaius, and a confused-looking Gwaine waiting for them. The match had been halted.

            The stadium was buzzing with activity, students wondering why everything had been stopped by the headmaster himself. Merlin released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Gaius had found something wrong, something serious enough to share with Professor Pendragon, who thought fit to pause the game.

            “Uther,” Morgana said, flipping her dark ponytail over her shoulder, “what’s the meaning of this?”

            “Be quiet, Morgana,” said Professor Pendragon. “Take your team and go stand over there until I call you back over. Gryffindors, come closer.”

            They did, looking windswept and befuddled, except for Merlin, who thought he knew enough what was happening. He looked at Gaius questioningly, who minutely shook his head.

            “Gaius,” the headmaster said, motioning him toward Arthur.

            The potions master stepped forward and began to look the Quidditch captain over, pulling him down so that Arthur was bent at the back. Gaius pulled down his eyelids and examined them, and then put his finger and thumb at the hinges of his jaw so that Arthur was forced to open his mouth, and Gaius leaned forward and sniffed (much to Arthur’s indignation, if the noise he made was any indication). Gaius nodded and released him, and Arthur glared at him as though he had been unspeakably violated.

            “He is affected as well, headmaster,” Gaius said. “I believe it is safe to assume that the others are, too. At least, the ones who are… _visibly_ affected.”

            “Indeed,” Professor Pendragon said, looking perturbed.

            “Father,” Arthur whined, “what is going on? We’re in the middle of a match! We’re nearly head-to-head with Slytherin, except _Emrys_ —“ he shot a glare in his Seeker’s direction— “keeps trying to catch the Snitch after I’ve specifically told him to wait until we’re at least a hundred points ahead.”

            “I’d do that if you’d do _your_ job and keep the Quaffle out!” Merlin retorted. “You know, instead of trying to look up Lamia’s robes whenever she passes, you prat.”

            Arthur flushed, squinting angrily (and also because he couldn’t see), but before he could argue back his father was interrupting: “Enough! Now, Gaius, can you brew an antidote?”

            “Better yet, Uther,” Gaius nodded, “only last week I had my pupils brew some. It’s only a matter of fetching it.” And the potions master shook his wand out of his sleeve, where he kept it for easy reach and pointed it upwards. “ _Accio_ antidote!”

            Only a moment later, something shining in the sunlight came hurtling toward them, and Merlin realized that it was bottle of antidote. And then he was struck with the brilliant idea that Arthur could just _accio_ his spectacles to him, and that way he’d never lose them—and he opened his mouth to proclaim this, but shut it just as soon as he remembered Arthur and he were very angry at one another, and Merlin had sworn to never help him again.

            “Here we are,” Gaius said, popping out the cork. “Step up, step up.”

            Lancelot, looking like a disgruntled child who had to take medicine, was the first to move. He took a small swig from the bottle, shuddered at the taste, and passed it to Arthur, who reluctantly did the same. The bottle was nearly dropped by Leon, who was busy trying to crane his neck so far to the right that he was able to see around Morgause, whose body shielded Lamia from view. He drank from it and passed it on to Gwaine, then resumed his effort.

            A moment later, they all began to blink blearily and look around as though they couldn’t remember how they’d gotten to the Quidditch pitch—first Lancelot, then Arthur, then Leon, then Gwaine.

            “Bloody hell,” Gwaine muttered, shaking his shaggy head.

            Arthur scrubbed his face with a hand.

            Professor Pendragon seemed satisfied that the antidote had worked, and said, “Gaius, I’ll trust you to be sure that Mr. Smithson is unaffected when he wakes up…Perhaps it would be better should he be moved to the hospital wing for recovery. I must deal with the other team.” He started to walk toward them, but after a few steps stopped and pulled out his own wand, and pressed the tip to his throat.

            “Students,” he said, “I am sorry to announce that due to circumstances, the Quidditch match is canceled. Further information will be available soon, but for now please exit the stadium in an orderly fashion. Thank you.”

            Despite his calm demeanor, the students, and even some of the faculty, became a frenzied mass of angry shouting. It took several teachers to subdue them and force them to move along, which they did very vehemently. The headmaster was confronting the Slytherins.

            “Now,” Gaius said, sounding exasperated, “how did all of you manage to ingest love potion?”

            The boys all looked rather embarrassed (which was a strange expression on Gwaine, certainly). “I don’t know,” Arthur said. “I hardly remember any of it!”

            “Define ‘hardly’,” Gaius said, arching an eyebrow.

            “Um,” Lancelot said, rubbing the back of his neck, “it’s all a bit blurry, really.”

            “Except for Lamia,” Leon pitched in, looking green.

            Merlin gasped. “Breakfast!” he exclaimed. They all looked at him. “I remember that this morning Lamia walked by our table—she must have slipped the potion into the food.”

            “Of course,” Gwen said. “I didn’t eat anything; too nervous, you see. But Lancelot, you had some eggs!”

            “And I ate cereal,” Leon said. “Elyan had toast, I think.”

            “I was sleeping,” Mithian added.

            “Arthur had some of everything,” Gwen said. “That explains why he was much more affected than the rest of you!”

            “Ah,” Gwaine said, pointing at Merlin. “I ate ya bacon, mate. And so did Percy, come to think o’ it…Where is tha’ bugger?”

            “Well,” Gaius said, handing the commentator the bottle, “you go and find him, and make sure he drinks this. There’s no good in letting him wander around in love with Lamia, is there?”

            “Sure,” he agreed, taking it and hurrying off in search of his friend.

            “What are we going to do about the match, Uncle Gaius?” Merlin asked.

            “I’m sure there will be a rematch, m’boy,” Gaius said. “Or else you’ll be put against a different team, depending on whether the entire Slytherin team was a part of this ploy.”

            “I wouldn’t put it past Morgana,” Arthur snorted. “Especially if that evil Morgause talked her into it.”

            “Don’t do or say anything you’ll regret, young man,” Gaius said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go about seeing Mr. Smithson to the infirmary.” With that he went off and charmed a still unconscious Elyan off the grass for easy transportation.

            “Gwen,” Lancelot said, taking her hand and looking incredibly morose. “I’m so sorry! I never would have done what I did or said what I said if—“

            “I know,” she said, patting his hand. “I understand. And it’s all right.”

            The exchange warmed Merlin’s heart. That was true love—and though it seemed cheesy, it was heart-felt and genuine. He was happy for them.

            He turned to Arthur, expecting an apology for the hand-shaped bruise on his arm and for the mean words he had said earlier. But Arthur didn’t look at him.

            “Oy, you prat,” Merlin said to get his attention.

            Arthur scowled at him. “What?”

            Merlin raised his eyebrows, but Arthur seemed no closer to understanding.

            “Aren’t you going to say sorry?”

            “Why for, Emrys?”

            “Don’t call me that!” Merlin stamped his foot. Without waiting for a reply, he shouldered past Arthur and stormed up toward the castle, broomstick clenched in one fist.

            He heard the girls call after him, but he ignored them.

            “Stupid prat,” Merlin muttered darkly to himself. “Stupid arse! What do I care? He’s just a pratty dollop-head, is all. I don’t care. My best friends are Will and Freya, and I don’t need anybody else!”

            Yet for all his grumbling, Merlin wasn’t entirely convinced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. College is a valid excuse.


	13. Chapter 13

~13~

            As it turned out, the Slytherin team had been aware of Lamia’s love potion, and in fact had gone along with it. They had all signed Morgause’s secret-keeping parchment, which meant that if anyone confessed the truth they had a sort of allergic reaction—hives and swollen throat and all—and, because Morgana had been the one who broke down and told what had happened, Morgause had to be called in quickly to administer the counter curse before the poor girl died. (And then, for some reason, Morgana decided that Merlin was to blame for the whole incident and so hated him forever after that.)

            Morgause and Lamia were expelled, the Slytherin Quidditch team was dispersed, and all Quidditch matches canceled pending inquiry at the Ministry of Magic.

            It was the worst thing that could possibly happen at Hogwarts.

            By the time Merlin finished explaining what had happened on the Quidditch pitch to Freya and Will, he was feeling very miserable for himself. If he couldn’t do Quidditch, then all he had to do was homework.

            Will patted his shoulder sympathetically, and said, “Listen, Merlin. You don’t need that prat! Drop his arse like you dropped my hippogriff toy down the well.”

            “That was an accident!” Merlin cried defensively.

            “I’m sure.”

            Freya sighed. “Why don’t you try talking to him again?”

            Merlin and Will pulled a face.

            “I’ve already tried that!” Merlin said.

            “Yesterday,” she reminded him pointedly. “Perhaps he was still feeling the effects of the love potion. Maybe he didn’t realize what he’d said, or even remember that he had called you a—a—well, you know.”

            Will snorted. “I rather think that if you’ve got the state of mind to call someone a shit-stabber under the influence of a love potion, you’ve got it in your mind when you’re sober.”

            “Will!” Freya exclaimed, flushing at the offensive word.

            “It’s true!” he retorted. “If you can’t say a word how can you expect—“

            “I can say it, I just choose not to—“

            “I’m only saying that if—“

            “Stop it, William Wiga, you know that—“

            “Listen, Freya, you don’t understand men at all, so—“

            “Me? Don’t understand? I’ll have you know—“

            “Sure, of course you just know everything there is to—“

            “Oh, stop it already, Will, please!”

            “Well, you started it!”

            “We’re trying to help Merlin, remember?”

            But while the pair had been arguing, Merlin had already thought of his own plan, and was smirking evilly. But he fixed his face into a more neutral expression before his friends turned to him expectantly.

            “Actually,” Merlin said, feigning a yawn, “I think I’m going to go to bed. It’s been a long day.”

            Freya peered at him suspiciously. “It’s only six o’clock.”

            “Like I said,” Merlin said, backing out of the library, “long day.”

            As soon as he was out of sight, he spun around and hurried off to Gryffindor Tower to put his plan into action. He had a lot of thinking to do, as well as an emergency order to place to Diagon Alley.

Merlin needed red parchment.

~

            The next morning at breakfast, Merlin was floating on a cloud of happiness. His plan had so far come together perfectly: everyone was there to witness his grand event, his ultimate payback for Arthur’s prattishness.

            Will was chattering on about something, but Merlin wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye, heart thudding in anticipation. Arthur seemed tired, and every once in a while glanced up at Merlin as though feeling the younger student’s eyes on him.

            At last Arthur stood with a sigh and walked the few spaces down to where Merlin sat, shoulders hunched. Their teammates watched them with clear interest.

            Merlin glared down at his eggs and ignored Arthur, even when he cleared his throat.

            “Right, you’re still angry,” Arthur said. Then he took a deep breath. “You know, normally I would never apologize, but even I must concede that in this case, extreme conciliatory measures must be taken. Even whilst under the influence of love potion I should have had the presence of mind to know that calling you what I did was very deeply offensive and completely uncalled for. And although this is no excuse, I still wasn’t quite feeling myself after I drank the antidote.”

            At last, Merlin turned and looked up at him. Arthur seemed heartened at that, and cleared his throat once more and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

            “So I’ve just come over here to tell you that I am…sorry, and I hope that perhaps you can forgive me. With time. If you’re still really angry about it,” Arthur finished lamely, cheeks flushing slightly.

            “Well,” Merlin said, pretending to think about it even though he’d already taken Arthur’s apology to heart, “I suppose, _sire_.”

            Arthur grinned, and Merlin returned it.

            Someone cried out, “The post is arriving!”

            And instantly Merlin’s heart dropped. His plan was still proceeding.

            He could only watch in horror and panic as the owls descended on the Great Hall, delivering the day’s post to their respective recipients. Merlin spotted the owl he’d borrowed from the aviary—the biggest, flashiest one he could find, damn it all—flying straight toward Arthur, who was still standing next to Merlin.

            “Budge up,” Arthur said, taking a seat beside Merlin before his head was taken off by one of the hundreds of messengers. He made to reach for some bacon strips, but the owl landed directly before his hand, proffering a crimson red envelope.

            The table hushed.

            “Merlin’s beard! Princess Pendragon’s got a Howler!” Will whispered ecstatically, punching Merlin’s shoulder.

            “A Howler?!”

            “Prince Arthur?”

            Merlin snatched the envelope and tried to run off, but Arthur grasped his wrist with startling intensity.

            “Hold on!” he cried. “That’s got _my_ name on it, _Mer_ lin.” For all the confidence in his voice Merlin could see the fear in his eyes.

            “We’ve got to get out of here before it explodes!” Merlin hissed, trying to pull away. He could feel the letter heating up in his hand.

            Arthur took it, determined to not let whatever the contents were bother him. He would face it courageously. “Everyone will hear it anyway!”

            By then the rest of the tables had heard of Arthur’s Howler, and many were standing on their seats trying to get a good look.

            “Don’t—please!” Merlin gasped out.

            But it was too late: Arthur broke the wax seal on the envelope, and it instantly unfurled and rose up into the air.

            Arthur held himself proudly, chest puffed out to withstand the barrage that was sure to come, but Merlin cowered.

            An unmistakable voice, magnified a hundred times, filled the Great Hall:

            “ARTHUR PENDRAGON, YOU ABSOLUTE PRAT, HOW DARE YOU?!

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD I WORKED ALL MY LIFE FOR THIS MOMENT, ONLY FOR YOU TO FUDGE IT ALL BY IGNORING EVERYTHING I SAY, ESPECIALLY WHEN I’M RIGHT?! AFTER EVERYTHING WE’VE BEEN THROUGH TOGETHER? AFTER EVERYTHING I’VE DONE TO HELP YOU? YOU DOLLOP-HEADED, TURNIP-BODIED, CLOTPOLE!

“MAYBE IF YOU HAD HALF AS MANY BRAINS AS YOU DID MONEY OR PIG-HEADEDNESS, OR MAYBE IF YOU COULD KEEP UP WITH YOUR SPECTACLES FOR MORE THAN THREE MINUTES AT A TIME, WE MIGHT HAVE WON THE MATCH! BUT NOOOO, YOU HAD TO GO AND INGEST LOVE POTION!!

            “WELL, LOVE THIS, YOU PRAT: _YOU’RE_ THE SHIT-STABBER!”

            And with that final word ringing through the Hall, the Howler blew a raspberry into Arthur’s stunned face, then tore itself into shreds, which floated harmlessly down into Leon’s neglected cereal.

            The Hall was deadly silent—even Will was shocked at Merlin’s audacity.

            Merlin, biting his lower lip, dared a glance toward the teacher’s table. Gaius, Alice, and his mother were fixating him with expressions of shock and utmost disappointment. Professor Pendragon seemed particularly stony-faced. Merlin swallowed thickly, feeling as though he were going to vomit.

            And the silence was broken by one long laugh that drew everyone’s attention to the Hufflepuff Table. Gwaine stood up. “Ye see?” he said loudly, cupping his hands round his mouth. “I told ye I could beat ya, Morgana! All it takes is a Howler and a good voice impersonation, and I brought th’ house down! Ye owe me twenty Galleons, li’l lassie!”

            The Hall burst into laughter and chatter at that, all except for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and the professors. The headmaster stood up. “Mr. Greene,” he said in his king voice, “to my office effective immediately.”

            “Aye, your majesty!” Gwaine gave a two-fingered salute and bowed, and then pranced down the aisle toward the doors. He winked at Merlin as he passed, but there was concern in his eyes.

            Merlin was mortified.

            Arthur cleared his throat again and stood up.

            “Arthur,” Merlin said imploringly. “I…”

            Wordlessly, Arthur turned and left the hall, chin held high as though he hadn’t just been humiliated in front of the entire school.

            And then Merlin really was sick all over the table.

~

            “What were you thinking?!” Hunith cried.

            Merlin removed the wet cloth from his forehead and lifted his head to look miserably at his mother as she paced the infirmary aisle. “I wasn’t!” he moaned.

            “Well,” Gaius said sharply from his bedside, “think, boy, think! If Gwaine Greene hadn’t taken the blame for it then you could have been expelled! In fact, I’m not so sure that you shouldn’t go and own up to it, if only to spare Mr. Greene’s hands from a month’s worth of polishing detentions.”

            Hunith strode up and forcefully replaced the cloth on her son’s head, fretful mother emerging despite her strong negative feelings. “In any case, you’ll have to apologize to that poor boy! You humiliated him, Merlin.”

            “I know! I tried to stop him, Mum.”

            “Not good enough, Merlin, not good enough! That poor boy!” She resumed her pacing.

            Alice came bustling over with a fizzy tonic in hand, and had Merlin sit up. “Drink this. It’ll settle your stomach.”

            Merlin drank it, knowing better than to recoil from the awful taste. For some reason, it tasted more bitter than usual. His spirits sank lower.

            How could he ever make up for something like this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness and shortness--again. Life is busy, busy, busy!


	14. Chapter 14

~14~

            “Er, is Arthur in?” Merlin asked, fist still raised to knock even though Leon had answered the door. He quickly lowered his hand when Leon raised an eyebrow, scratched his straw-colored hair, and looked over his shoulder.

            “Your highness,” he called groggily, “Merlin wants to know if you’re in.”

            “I’m not!” came Arthur’s voice back.

            Leon sighed and turned to Merlin. “He says he’s not in. Sorry.”

            Merlin groaned loudly. “Arthur! I just want to talk to you. Please.”

            “I said I’m not in!”

            With a very put-upon sigh, Merlin pushed past Leon uninvited and stormed into the room. It was a very nice room, actually, and had only two beds—perks of being a Prefect, Merlin supposed, being able to share with your best friend. He marched over to the desk in front of the window, where Arthur was hunched over a book studying, twirling a quill in his hands.

            Merlin took a deep breath, filling his lungs. “Arthur-I’m-sorry-I-sent-you-that-Howler-I-had-no-idea-that-it-would-turn-out-that-way-because-I-wasn’t-thinking-as-usual-and-my-mum-and-uncle-already-yelled-at-me-so-don’t-worry-about-that-and-I-didn’t-mean-any-of-what-I-said-I-was-just-angry-after-the-match-and-I-wrote-it-in-the-heat-of-the-moment-so-please-don’t-hate-me-because-if-you-do-I-don’t-know-how-I’d-go-on-because-it’s-bad-enough-with-the-bullies-and-I-don’t-really-have-that-many-friends-anyway.” He tapered off toward the end as he ran out of breath.

            Arthur hadn’t looked up from the pages of his book, nor given any indication that he’d heard the younger student at all. Merlin waited, wringing his hands.

            At last the Prefect sighed. He took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes with his other hand. “I suppose it’s no matter, anyway,” he said. “Everything you said was true.”

            “No,” Merlin protested.

            “Yes,” Arthur said, looking up. “You were right, I _am_ a prat.”

            “And a dollop-head,” Leon piped in from his bed.

            “Yes,” Arthur said, “and that.”

            Merlin cocked his head agreeably. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

            “Yes,” Arthur sighed again. “Yes, well. What I mean is, I’m not angry with you.”

            “Oh, that’s a relief,” Merlin grinned. “Because with the way you were acting, I was sure that—“

            “But,” he interrupted, holding up a finger. “You’ll have to make it up to me, _Mer_ lin.”

            Merlin’s smile faded. “But you just said—“

            “First, you have to serve me for a whole month. Whatever I say, you have to do it, no buts about it.”

            “That’s—huh?”

            “And you have to do extra Quidditch practices, no lazing about!”

            “I’m not lazy!”

            “ _And_ you have to go on a date with me.”

            “That’s not fair!” Merlin exclaimed. “You just said that you weren’t angry with me, so why would I have to make up for anything? I’m not a servant, and I am certainly not lazy, and I’ll definitely not date—sorry? Date? You mean, you and me? Together?”

            Arthur raised an imperious eyebrow, but Merlin could see some uncertainty lurking in the depths of his blue eyes. “All right, fine,” he said. “Disregard the first two, then. But go out with me, Merlin. It’s the only way.”

            Merlin flushed.

            “My mum watches shows like this on the telly,” Leon said from across the room where he was flicking through a _Daily Prophet_.

            “What’s a telly?” Arthur asked.

            “A Muggle device that puts together photographs and radio,” Merlin said. “It tells people news and things. That’s why it’s called a telly.”

            “No, it’s,” Leon started, but then sighed. “Never mind. What I mean is, you’re both being dramatically romantic. Why don’t you just snog already so I can read about the latest Quidditch match in peace?”

            “Who won?” Arthur spun his chair around in interest.

            “Arthur!” Merlin said.

            “Oh, right. Well, Merlin?”

            “Well, Kilgharrah says that you and I should make up, so…”

            “Kilgharrah,” Arthur repeated slowly. “My father’s…cat.”

            “Yes. I mean, no. He’s actually a dragon.”

            “Maybe you should stop going to the kitchens before bed, Merlin.”

            “I haven’t been to the kitchens! If anyone, it’s you. You’re the one with the well-fed look.”

            “Are you calling me fat, _Mer_ lin?”

            “You said it, not me.”

            “ _Mer_ lin!”

            “Oh, all right. I’ll go out with you, Arthur.” He leaned forward so as to kiss him, and Arthur’s eyes fluttered closed in anticipation. Their lips brushed.

            “ _Merlin, wake_ up, boy!”

            Merlin jolted to wakefulness, heart suddenly thudding. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked around wildly. “Huh?”

            “Hurry up, Merlin, you’ll be late,” Gaius said from his doorway. “Come along and have breakfast, quickly now!”

            Merlin groaned and flopped back down onto his straw mattress. “Gaius,” he complained. “I had the _strangest_ dream. Arthur had magic. And so did Uther, and Gwen, and Lancelot, and—Gaius? Gaius?”

            He rolled off the bed and tugged on the nearest pair of crumpled trousers.

            “Gaius, are you listening? We all had magic, and we were _teenagers_ , Gaius, and you were there, and Will, and Freya, and Aredian.”

            “I’m sure, I’m sure, Merlin,” Gaius said, pushing a slice of bread into his hand ushering him out of the door. “You’ll tell me all about it over supper tonight, but now Arthur is waiting to be woken!”

            Still a bit out of sorts, Merlin loped off down the stairs, Gaius staring after him with an archaic eyebrow raised. Then he sent a rather guilty look toward his workbench, where lying open was a book, the ink still drying. He took a seat and took up his quill again to finish the entry: _Accidentally dosed Merlin with wrong draft; he enchanted the broom to fly around the room, shouting about something called a “Snitch.” Had to sedate him. Woke him in the morning. He thinks it was a dream._

END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this ending, but it was the way it was always meant to end. In fact, the story was only supposed to be around five or six chapters, but it took a life of its own and became this monster. I don't know, it feels like a bit of a disappointing ending, but I guess Merlin was disappointed to be woken at that precise moment, eh? 
> 
> And anyway, I'm positively swamped with college at the moment, so this will be the best you'll get out of this one. I just don't have time for it.


End file.
